


The Definition of Suffering

by Checkerbox



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Companion Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Denial of Feelings, Drama, Jealousy, M/M, Pining, cole's quest is featured pretty heavily, probably doesn't warrant the m rating but just to be safe, same morally ambiguous trevelyan from my other fic, trevelyan gets a companion quest too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:00:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23089753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Checkerbox/pseuds/Checkerbox
Summary: In an ideal world, the things he ignores will go away instead of eating him up from the inside out.OR: A story wherein Dorian is still romancing the Inquisitor, but that Inquisitor is not Trevelyan.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Male Adaar/Dorian Pavus, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 26
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I, uh, I really really wanted to write an angst short of a very particular variety, but no matter how I tried I couldn’t make it work with the way I have my “canon” Dorian romance set up. The only way to be able to write it was to construct an entirely alternate scenario, and that involved…a lot more writing and plotting than a one-shot can really involve. 
> 
> I’ve posted this first chapter as something relatively standalone that hopefully gets the feeling across while I work on finishing the short-ish story that sort of spiraled out of it. I may or may not succeed, but regardless I have close to 20,000 words written for it already and the chapters (mostly) plotted out.
> 
> In the meanwhile, please enjoy the following.

When Dorian leaves the Inquisitor’s quarters, it is in the black of night with his hair mussed and his clothing ruffled. There is a giddiness to his step, a hurried scuttering that belies what he has just spent the last few hours doing. There is a shivery quality to his motions that suggests an ache and exhaustion of a time pleasurably spent.

The moonlight catches on his skin, and the parts that are exposed glisten slightly in the damp air. As he passes through the great hall towards the wing where his cramped little room off the library is located, Dorian readjusts his belts and swipes a hand through his closely shorn locks. He is not being as cautious as he would like to pretend he is—there are many shadows for him to stick to, but he doesn’t. He lingers, tracing his fingers over the roughly hewn stone of the hallway and reminiscing with a faint smirk on his face.

He is beautiful.

A few weeks ago it was just kisses, albeit long and lingering ones against bookshelves and in corners just out of sight. Hands straying, but never too far from the chest, waist, or back. Affection in front of the rest of the public was limited, albeit with enough warmth that rumors were already spreading. Perhaps something happened while they were on the road. Perhaps they have started exploring each other already, and this is not a culmination of anything so much as a continuation.

Whatever the case, it causes an odd, unpleasant quivering in his stomach to consider.

Dorian stiffens, just a little, suddenly aware that he is not alone. He turns.

Trevelyan is perfectly capable of moving out of sight. He doesn’t.

“ _Vishante kaffas!”_ Dorian is just barely able to suppress his yelp of surprise, a torch flaring to life nearby and casting them both in stark relief. Shadow hides a full half of his face, and it’s the half with his beauty mark so this is a tragedy indeed. “—You nearly got a face full of fire, you imp.”

“Sorry,” Trevelyan says, unapologetically. “I wasn’t trying to frighten you.”

“You’re worse than _Cole_ , are you aware of that?” Once the startlement wears off, Dorian is smoothing his mustache and glaring with a look that is positively divine. “What are you doing up at this ungodly hour?”

“I was going to ask you the same question.” Without meaning to, his eyes trail back the way Dorian has just come. As if he needs to ask.

Dorian appears not to have a ready answer for this, but he replies smoothly after a moment, “Taking a little stroll, that’s all. Keeps the nightmares at bay.”

“Ah.” He shivers, delighted. “Well. _I_ take great delight in skulking about at night and spying on little Altus mages who are about after curfew.” When Dorian rolls his eyes it causes the biggest smile to break on his face. “So that is my excuse.”

"How amusing.” He reaches over and flicks Trevelyan’s forehead, making him flinch. “You are an absolute ghoul, Trevelyan. Please tell me that I’m not going to be running into any night guards on my way back to my room.”

“You should be fine. I expect that even if you do run into someone off their patrol schedule, you can simply hand him your line about being on a ‘stroll’ and he will be too polite to call you on it.”

“Better that than people thinking you’re looking to kill them in their sleep.” And it’s a cruel thing to say, but Dorian says it with such a wicked look that all it does is make Trevelyan feel warm. “Stalking is unbecoming.”

He wants to say that he has never been “becoming”. That he has a lot of practice with it, in fact. He wants to be insulted with that soft, velvet voice, wants to hear the affection that lies underneath it. But it’s past midnight, and Dorian is already looking to leave. He has already had his fill of his time being monopolized by someone for tonight.

Yet the sight of him pulling away still fills Trevelyan with a slight panic. “—Dorian.”

“Hm?” He turns back. His eyes glitter as he does so. “What?”

“You have a…” Trevelyan taps his own neck. “Should probably pull up your collar.”

“Ah.” After a momentary flush of red to his cheeks Dorian does as suggested, neatly hiding the small, mouth-shaped bruise along his pulse point. “Much obliged….Do try to get some sleep. Wouldn’t do to have you passing out mid-battle tomorrow.”

“I will try,” he says evasively, but Dorian is already walking away and so the words trail off dead in his mouth.

Even when he is out of sight Trevelyan still remains there, for a time.

Skyhold is quiet at night. And so he can hear every sound, every footstep. Every heartbeat.

Dorian and the Inquisitor.

Pure coincidence that he knows. He just always happens to be lurking, he says to himself. Always happens to be right there. Dorian always happens to catch his eye. Trevelyan always happens to stay just out of view. Always happens to have every sound and sight burned into his memory.

Dorian and Adaar.

They are both good men. They both like heavy texts that are too dense for Trevelyan himself to get through. They both have a delightful viciousness in battle that is paralleled only by their decorum and kindness off the field. They both are attractive, even if Adaar’s looks are more esoteric and personally displeasing. They are both important men. He likes them both, separately.

Together…?

The urge to kill something with his bare hands surges up in his stomach.

He quietly tamps it down and slips off to the cold room in a loft of the Southern guard tower that he’d set aside for his own. He is shaking, probably from the cold, when he finally climbs inside, and it is only when he is safely curled into a heavy blanket with his entire body completely covered that he is able to relax and drift off.

Dorian and Adaar.

Why does it make him want to scream?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story isn’t finished yet, but I’m making progress so figured it might be safe to post another chapter.

He awoke to a persistent bird squawking in his ear, and a rolled-up piece of parchment sitting on top of his blanket.

The bird was easily rectified with a thrown knife, which missed and merely sent it whirling through the air, wings fluttering as it left to find its master. The paper involved a fair bit more consternation and time, as it was written entirely in code, and it had been long enough since the last missive that he had to run through the key in his head again from scratch.

A quick glance outside showed that it was just past dawn. He had some time. Sunlight streaming in orange and rich through the tower’s cracking, shabby windows, he unfolded the note and frowned over it for several minutes. It would be helpful to write down a translation, perhaps—but then he would have to eat it, and he didn’t care to do that again.

The message read:

_T._

_Caches you directed us to had been cleared by the time we reached them. Make SURE your missives are not intercepted, and your information is up to date._

_I am still waiting on more specific instructions on how to locate Skyhold. Your directions on locating Haven (or what was left of it) were more than adequate to suggest you are not nearly as bumbling in navigation as you are pretending. What’s the matter? Cold feet? Ha ha._

_Report on Inquisitor’s training is interesting, if not prone to your love of exaggeration. All I see of oxmen involves polearms. A shield is unusual—nonconventional tactics of using it to crush people’s heads notwithstanding. Could prove useful if it ever becomes necessary to engage. Keep on it._

_Some more information on the rest of the circle would not go remiss. I noticed you failed to mention anything about a Vint in the crew. Had to find out from N. For shame, rich boy._

_Awaiting your next missive._

_-C_

Caelus. Talking so casually, like they were friends.

It was almost offensive. As though there was any affection in that man for someone who had been at best an easily kept attack dog. Or even any basic appreciation for his cheerful puppet-show antics with the skulls of their enemies.

He considered writing a reply immediately, but thought better of it. There was nothing of value to report, and…his thoughts were too scattered to compose anything adequately deceptive to send. Better to wait until they got back from the mission to the Exalted Plains—certainly, there would be plenty to lie about then. Perhaps he could direct some of the old gang towards a wyvern nest by telling them it was a weapons drop.

That decided, he slid the letter into the false bottom of his trunk and got dressed.

The atmosphere around Skyhold had changed since Adamant, though given the traumatic nature of the battle it was surprisingly positive, on most counts. Tales of the Inquisition’s bravery against impossible odds, the stupendous heroism of their Herald returning alive from the Fade once more, the sheer might of having conquered a Grey Warden stronghold beset by monsters and an archdemon—he heard the chatter every day, almost drowning out the whispers of doubt and fear that still lingered on like a shadow before midday.

It was nice. Fear and doubt were such buzzkills.

The others were waiting in the courtyard when he came down, prepping and double-checking their equipment. Some of them took it more seriously than others—While Cassandra adjusted the fit of her armor, making sure that her movements were free and unhindered to practice sword swinging, Sera was juggling three jars of bees while standing on one foot.

He poked her back as he passed by to announce his presence. She yelped in rage, fumbling and only managing to keep two of the bombs from falling—the third Trevelyan caught himself, handing it back with an innocent smile. 

“ _Prig_ ,” she said, sticking her tongue out.

He put his hands on his hips. “I know you are, but what am I?”

“Charming.” Dorian was there, of course, resplendent in pure white robes that seemed to gleam in Skyhold’s harsh sunlight. He was immaculate, from the polished snakes on his boots to his elegantly coiffed hair, and it was impossible to tell by looking at him that he’d been in bed with a Qunari the night before. “Finally saw fit to join us, I see.”

At a quick glance he saw Sera, Dorian, Varric, and Cassandra. No Adaar. “Had a late night. I’m sure you know all about that. Where is the Inquisitor?”

Dorian sniffed, doing a marvelous job of appearing aloof. “He’ll be along shortly, I expect. There was some commotion over by the stables.”

True to form, the moment the words were out of his mouth there was the unmistakable _clop clop clop_ of Adaar’s boots on hard ground, accompanied by his mount, a large dracolisk that was the only thing they could find big enough to carry him that hadn’t already been called dibs on by The Iron Bull.

Inquisitor Adaar was a large man with a stern countenance, though there was such softness underneath that once it had been seen it was hard for Trevelyan to take the rest seriously. He had a granite jaw, eyes the color of ice, and shiny black horns that curled under his delicately tapered ears. His hair was cut short, slightly richer in color than the grey-brown of his skin, and poison spider vitaar accentuated the cut of his cheekbones to such an absurd degree that at some angles it looked like he could cut someone with them.

Of that, Trevelyan was not jealous. Not even the slightest bit.

When he approached he was clearly already set to go, his long, sweeping overcoat blowing back in the breeze behind him a little as he walked. When he spoke, his voice was all business, not even sparing a look back for any of them as he climbed onto his dracolisk. “Sorry I’m late. Had an issue to resolve with Cole.”

It was always so lovely when the man was being evasive. It was never out of personal fear. It was always because he didn’t want to upset someone present. Or multiple someones. Trevelyan raised his hand. “What issue with Cole?”

Adaar regarded him as one might a particularly meddlesome child, albeit one’s own child and not some annoying brat to be slapped as one walked by. “He is…still recovering from what he saw at Adamant, and has expressed some…understandable concerns. We’re looking into a long-term solution, but for now I have Solas assisting with some temporary measures that might make things easier in the meanwhile.”

Keeping his hand up, Trevelyan asked, “Do those concerns involve Cole being bound by an enemy mage and killing all of us?”

A moment of silence followed that sentence. He glanced around curiously, quite certain that he was not the only one to whom the idea had occurred given that Cole himself had been periodically muttering about it when he thought no one was listening. Cassandra’s gaze tightened, and Sera started hurriedly rearranging the jars in her pack.

Adaar sighed. “Yes, Alexiel, that is the concern. Hence why he isn’t going to be traveling with us for now. –I expect you to pick up that slack, incidentally. Sera and Varric can handle the archery this time.”

“You mean I get to gruesomely dismember people _up close?_ ” Trevelyan’s lip curled. “Yes _sir_.”

He could hear Cassandra’s disgusted snort as the group resumed their preparations in earnest.

Their destination for this mission was the Exalted Plains, a place so ransacked, ravaged, and overall shitty that Trevelyan wasn’t entirely convinced that “exalted” didn’t actually mean “dying”. It was a major theater of the Orlesian Civil War for a reason—there was very little there that anyone would lose sleep over destroying. At least, _now._

"Leliana’s scouts have been encountering difficulty with contacting soldiers on either side of the war,” Adaar explained the following evening at camp, en route. “There was some talk of desertions and then both Celene and Gaspard’s soldiers retreated, with not a word since. Obviously something more is going on here—possibly Venatori involvement, if the intel is right.”

That meant magic, which always tickled Trevelyan’s fancy. He tried not to show it, but then it was pretty much impossible not to have a smile on his face when he was eager. Or experiencing any other emotion, really.

Adaar remained as stone-faced as ever, looking at them each in turn. “Remember—this is primarily reconnaissance and opening communications for the peace talks. We don’t want to go running into any large battles.”

When they finally got there, the large battles ran into them.

“Dying Plains” would actually be a pretty good rename, Trevelyan had thought to himself. What with the dead waking up on the ramparts, and all. Thousands of corpses fallen in the line of battle, hundreds of refugees from villages burned to the ground—all of them had risen from their shallow graves to seek their unholy revenge on the living.

Which would have been fine, except Adaar and company apparently qualified as members of that particular group.

The fight through hordes of undead was grueling and not nearly as engaging as it should have been, though they did run into a few demons that livened things up. Trevelyan simply forced himself to sink into the physical sensations of slaughter, after a while—the slice of a knife through rotted muscle, feeling as much as hearing the snap of bone under his fingers. There was a kind of peace to it.

Then they stumbled on a pack of Freemen, and things became fun at last. Then there was a cacophony of screams as the tide of battle turned against the poor slobs, as they found themselves suddenly stuck with daggers in their sides or with crippled knees just as a shield smashed their heads open. This was a place where Trevelyan was what he was meant to be, with the only purpose he had ever been good at, where not even Dorian could distract him from his joy--

“My, aren’t you really _something_ when you get excited.”

_\--Unless he said things like that._

When it came to allies it was hard to focus on anyone other than Dorian, in combat.

In the beginning, he had watched everyone. –Albeit, partially to scan for weaknesses in the event that they turned on him, given the nature of his recruitment. But the fact remained that he had joined a very skilled and flashy crew, and it was a joy to watch them operate. This fact had not changed; it wasn’t that, say, Cassandra was no longer as lovely to see in action. Indeed, even now the way she would clean her sword after a fight, first splattering the blood into the grass with a swing of her arm and then a neat, efficient swipe of cloth over the blade, it was poetry in motion. But recently, she had been…eclipsed.

To be fair. Even with all the holy backing in the world, she couldn’t shoot fire from her hands.

As they traveled back to a campsite they had established along the Western ramparts earlier, pleasantly bone-weary and buzzing with victory, Sera jabbed Dorian in the side and said, “So…You and the Inquisitor, hey?”

Immediately there were Dorian’s eyes, turning back to glare accusingly at Trevelyan. He glanced at Sera, far too amused and enamored with Dorian’s flashing anger to actually sound sincere when he protested, “I told her nothing.”

“What? You know too?” Sera cackled. “Not a good secret, then, is it?”

Trevelyan looked ahead. Adaar was engaged in conversation with Cassandra and Varric, so engrossed that he seemed deaf to the discussion going on behind him.

When Dorian spoke, it was angry hissing through his teeth. “How did you even hear about this, if he didn’t tell you?”

She blew him a raspberry. “Servants change linens. And clean the corridors at night. Gardeners fix up crushed flowerbeds. Bet you didn’t even think about all the little people, thinking you’re so slick and sneaky.”

“You see, Dorian,” Trevelyan said, putting his hands on his hips. “It wasn’t me, it was the little people. The ones who live in the walls and are spying on your every—hang on, did you two do something in the garden?”

Dorian snorted, folding his arms. “Not what you’re thinking, I guarantee it.”

“Bet you got petals in _places_ ,” Sera jeered.

“I’m telling you, it’s not—"

“What’s going on?”

All three of them froze as they looked forward to see Adaar striding over to them, head tilted just slightly to the side and expression idling in blank curiosity.

Trevelyan’s skin began to prickle. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Varric jotting notes, which somehow made the sensation worse.

“Nothing!” Dorian said, throwing up his hands. “Nothing, these two were just being—”

“Is it like jousting?” Sera pressed, glancing between the two of them. “How does that work?”

Adaar looked to Trevelyan, as though hoping for some easy explanation. “Jousting?”

“Well, Sera was just asking Dorian about your sexual habits.” He paused, speaking through his teeth. “And by ‘your’, I mean you and Dorian.”

“Oh.” Dorian had progressed to holding his face in his hands, and Adaar went to pat his shoulder sympathetically. “Skyhold’s a small place, Dorian. People gossip. Didn’t you say that?”

“I didn’t think they’d have the gall to bring it up like we were _discussing the weather_.”

Sera laughed again.

Adaar continued, hands on his hips. “Though I’m not sure where Sera would get the idea that it’s like _jousting_ , considering that would require you to be in the opposite position from what we normally—"

The noise Dorian made as he shoved Adaar back to the front of their troupe was positively unholy.

“That means he takes it,” Sera murmured when they were out of earshot, nudging Trevelyan in the side.

It was the kind of comment that would make him laugh if it were about literally any other person, and so he grinned at her so hard that his teeth hurt and forced a chuckle.

If anyone noticed the strain on his cheer for the rest of the day, they didn’t comment.

The scouts who had set up the campsite put his tent right next to Adaar’s, rather than on the outskirts like he’d asked.

Which meant that he had to pick between two different hells—stay in the general circle of tents and be forced to listen to every single possible noise that people were capable of making and be completely unable to sleep, or go out and find his rest on a pile of dead bodies somewhere far separated from camp. As far as he was concerned there was no middle ground whatsoever.

He chose the tent, but it had been down to a coin flip. He would take silence over warm and comfort any day—it was why he slept in cobwebby old libraries and dank guard towers rather than the barracks—but even he had his limits.

Long ago he had tried to explain that his ears were sensitive, particularly when he was exhausted. That he was incapable of tuning out anything that wasn’t rain, especially if it involved speaking. It was why he was so good at helping Adaar locate things like those cursed shards. Evidently, that specific request hadn’t stuck.

And, so, just as he was fading off into sleep, Trevelyan was jolted awake by footsteps, and then Dorian’s voice.

“You would think that given your indispensable nature to the Inquisition and your impressive stature that this would entitle you to a larger tent.” Fumbling. Fabric being hastily moved aside.

Adaar’s chuckle was warm and deep. “I thought you didn’t want anyone seeing us in the same tent together. Keep things private.”

“Yes, well, evidently that ship has sailed.” He sounded irritable, in that uniquely Dorian way that meant he was not irritable at all, and probably even playful. “You blasted Southerners and your indiscretion. How can anyone be expected to maintain a secret affair?”

Trevelyan already had a blanket over his head, he _already_ was pressing his gloved hands as tightly against his ears as was physically possible, and still he could hear everything perfectly intelligibly. Perhaps he could find a long, thin blade and stab his eardrums…

And then he heard a yawn-muffled, “I think I’m going to have to pass tonight, actually. I’m still sore, and all these corpses don’t exactly get me in the mood.”

“Ah—of course, yes, that makes sense.” Dorian’s reply was fumbling and slow, and Trevelyan thought wishfully to himself that he sounded like someone whose intentions had been misunderstood. “I didn’t mean to—Right.”

Oblivious, Adaar continued, “Now that you’re here, I did have something I wanted to ask you, though. About an amulet you’ve been trying to purchase?”

Trevelyan pulled his blanket back from over his head.

“Amulet?” First there was confusion in Dorian’s voice. Then a soft “ah” of understanding. “How did you even—Oh. Leliana. I forget that one can’t so much as piss without the nightingale knowing.”

“I wouldn’t intrude into your business, Dorian, but I can’t imagine you would be spending so much time trying to acquire it if it was just a frivolous piece of jewelry.”

“Ha. So says you.” The bitter sarcasm faded as soon as it had appeared, bleeding into a sigh. “It is important, but for personal reasons alone. The amulet is…my family’s birthright. I sold it when I left Tevinter—I wanted to divest myself of anything to do with my homeland, and also I…needed the coin. Now that the Inquisition stipend is more than a few measly coppers at the end of each week I had thought I had enough to buy it back. But the rat-faced merchant Ponchard won’t sell it to me.”

“I’m confused, Dorian.” It was forever a mystery how Adaar could listen to Dorian rant and not just immediately fall over himself with adoration. “You said you sold it to disavow your homeland. Has that changed? Why try to get it back?”

“Because I—when I spoke to my father—" He cut off, and with a long breath merely continued, “Because it’s _mine._ …Because it was foolish of me to part with it in the first place.”

“If it means that much to you, I could step in.”

“No.” Dorian’s reply was abrupt and brusque, far too emotionally charged to take completely seriously. “This isn’t your problem. I will figure out how to get it back on my own.”

There was a short silence, and then, “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“I trust you. This is your business. If you don’t want me to interfere, I won’t.”

Mentally, Trevelyan made note of the information. Pavus birthright that was an amulet of some sort. Merchant named Ponchard. Hm. He sounded Orlesian. Where did most Orlesian merchants congregate? Perhaps it would be beneficial to check things with Leliana.

He was startled from his thoughts when Dorian spoke up again “I suppose if you’re really not in the mood, then perhaps I should be…heading back to my tent.”

“Sorry. –Tomorrow night I’m sure I’ll be refreshed. I’ll be more than happy to make up for it.” Adaar punctuated this with a little growl, something that made Trevelyan’s stomach lurch as Dorian made a noise of appreciation.

And then he was quiet, letting out a sigh so soft that it was almost inaudible.

But only for a moment.

“…Fine. I will hold you to that. You aren’t throwing me out of your bedroll a second time.”

"As if I could throw you out of anything.”

“With those muscles, you could throw me anywhere you wanted.”

Trevelyan curled up again, shoving the blanket back over his ears. He just wanted to sleep. That was all. Was it really so much to ask? Must he feel his brain melting in the process?

“Goodnight, Dorian.”

“…Goodnight, Inquisitor.”

The rustle of the tent flap once more. Feet crunching out into the grass. Only—the footsteps did not continue, not for a moment. Trevelyan pulled back the blanket again and opened his eyes, saw Dorian’s silhouette through the fabric of his tent as he stood there. Posture slumping just a bit.

He began to walk away.

Trevelyan crawled over and opened the flap to his tent just a crack. Just enough to see the billowing of Dorian’s robes as he left, and to listen as his crunching footsteps faded into silence. Something turned over in his stomach, tugging away at strings he had been positive were not connected to anything.

Back under the covers of his blanket. Back where it was only just warm enough, and the world was dark and calm, and he could imagine scenarios where he’d had the gall to ask Dorian to join him there before someone else had snatched him up.


	3. Chapter 3

“Already compromised. I shouldn’t be here. Just a worry, a distraction, a risk. They’ll make me into a monster and kill you like everyone else.”

Trevelyan lifted a brow and glanced over. Cole was supposed to be rifling through the drawers for incriminating paperwork. Instead he was standing in a corner with his head in his hands, muttering to himself.

“Cole, do you _really_ think that we’ll find a mage of any talent here in the capital of Orlais? Much less one that is capable of binding you?”

“Morrigan.”

“Oh.” He grimaced. “Right. Forgot that one.”

“Even if not her, it’ll be someone else—snuck in, hiding deep, a poisoned dagger in an ornate walking cane. I’ll become like _them_ , like the demons the Wardens summoned.” It was hard, hearing that much fear in the boy’s voice. How old Cole really was, Trevelyan couldn’t possibly know, but he sounded like he was barely out of teenagerdom, and the youthful trembling…grated on his nerves.

“You’re anxious.” He crept up to him and grabbed his hands away from his face. He looked even more scraggly and pathetic without the hat on. “You must stop indulging in your worries. Focus on getting the job done.”

“Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

That made him blink, releasing his hands. “Because you’re Cole.”

“I’ve killed people. People who didn’t deserve it. People who couldn’t fight back.”

“And that bothers you?” He shrugged. “If it does, then stop doing it. That always works for me.”

“Everything so black and white in your eyes. _Is or is not. Will or will not. Cares or cares not._ ” Cole peered into his face with his unsettling milky eyes, and for just a moment Trevelyan felt a twinge of unease. “The only person you can control is yourself. But if even that is beyond your reach? What if you can’t stop when you don’t want to hurt, anymore? _How do you stop?_ ”

Faint light from the half-moon trickled in through the window, the only thing illuminating the pair of them. Trevelyan opened his mouth to speak, but found that the only word that would trickle forth was, “What?”

A bell, ringing in the distance.

“—Shit.” He scrambled to fetch the missives he’d been able to find at least, all thoughts of discomfort scattering. “Cole, you keep looking. I have to report back.”

“I don’t _want_ to be a monster,” Cole said, anguished.

It took little actual maneuvering to sneak back into the party without being noticed. Apparently, being a child of one of Ostwick’s seventh most illustrious families made him “quaint” but not particularly worth paying attention to. At least, not compared to the motley assortment that he traveled with, up to and including a Vashoth ruler of an ostensibly Andrastian organization.

He caught sight of Adaar across the floor as he deposited himself in the gardens where the lovely bard was playing, too tall to miss and deftly misdirecting small talk as he went. He’d been delegating all night, the poor thing. As intelligent and thoughtful as he was, he knew the Inquisitor to be a very hands-on man, and the leash of his status keeping him in the spotlight must have ached considerably. Even Trevelyan would have tired of playing in the crowd of chattering fools eventually.

Aiming to share what he knew with Leliana, Trevelyan passed covertly through several arches, making sure to appear for all the world like a man who had lost a ring and was attempting not to be seen searching for it. And so, when he passed behind a trio of nobles talking, the fact that he was within earshot went unnoticed.

“…Well, better to keep the snake out in the open where we can see him, I say.”

Almost on their own, his feet stilled, ears perking.

“I don’t know. It feels so…impertinent of him. Like he’s welcome here, just because he cozied up to the right people. They don’t treat mages properly up there. Don’t instill in them the proper respect.”

“Celene does have a history of letting mages get too proud, you know. Remember the last court enchanter. Maybe it’s the Inquisition showing deference.”

“Maybe it’s the Inquisitor inviting his favorite _partner_ to show off.”

He blinked, processing their words as everything else in his world came to a screeching halt.

Oh.

Oh, some more people were going to die tonight.

A dark, immaculate hand was there to grab his wrist before he could even think about reaching into his belt for the small knives he kept hidden. He whirled, eyes burning.

Vivienne. Placid, poised, and cool as ever. “You need to work on your mask, my dear.”

The lightness of her step should have been impossible in those heels of hers, the ones that made such a delicious clack with every footfall. “I’m not wearing a mask.”

“Hence why you need to work on it.” There was amusement in her eyes as she let him go, and he relaxed considerably. “At this rate, our enemies are not the only ones who’ll see through you. Do be careful.”

He swallowed, almost about to acknowledge the point and thinking better of it. He simply passed on a bundle of papers so small that they easily fit into the uniform sleeve. “For the Inquisitor.”

“Much obliged.” She took them so quickly that they seemed to vanish, smiling daintily as was her way. “And for you, my dear, a request from His Most Holy—” and with only the smallest hint of sarcasm on those three words. “A distraction, if you please. Be creative.”

Creative. He could do creative.

It didn’t take long to find Dorian. What with all the people talking about him and casting the occasional shifty glance in his direction.

Like everyone else in their little crew, Dorian was wearing the same bland uniform of red and blue with the black thigh-high boots, the one that somehow refused to offend Orlais’ own awful tastes. Unlike everyone else, he had actually spent extra money getting it fitted to his body beforehand. The fabric hugged his form in a manner that accentuated his build, the lean cut of his figure and the relaxed tension in his posture that called to mind a coiled cobra.

Or at least, what was carefully affected to look like a coiled cobra.

He made a show of appearing unaffected and eternally pleased with himself, hand on his glass that had, despite his comments earlier, remained full--but it was obvious there was one particular person that he was looking for any time he glanced out onto the dance floor.

Adaar hadn’t approached him once since entering. Far too busy schmoozing the upper crust and dispatching orders to set aside time for idle chit-chat with one of his followers. Understandable—as a Vashoth and the leader of a heretical organization, he had quite the uphill climb when it came to winning favor. Could hardly sabotage it talking openly to a Tevinter Altus.

Even if they were sleeping together.

Even if that Altus was constantly scanning the crowd for him.

Trevelyan ran his tongue over the back of his teeth and then smiled wide. “Enjoying the party, Dorian?”

Aloof as ever, Dorian responded with the slightest nod and his eyes sliding over in his direction. “Oh yes. Gossip, murder, and perfectly arranged hors d’oeuvres. Reminds me of home. Tell me, did you see what that marquis was wearing? I’ve half a mind to turn him into a toad.”

Rather than standing next to him, Trevelyan slowly paced around until they were face to face. “You don’t turn people into toads.”

“Don’t I? Well, perhaps I am getting fuzzy on what I can do, and what these small-minded Orlesians _think_ I can do.”

It was hard not to laugh. He couldn’t help it. His anger cooled so suddenly. “They would all wet their smalls if they could see even a fraction of what you’re truly capable of.”

Dorian smiled, and though it was utterly laced with smarm Trevelyan could tell it was a real one. “Flatterer. I can tell you want something.”

“You’ve got me. I have been instructed to provide a distraction, to keep the nobles’ attention occupied. Therefore…” Hand extended, bowing low. As he’d been taught from a young age. The lessons still stuck. “Would you do me the honor of a dance?”

Dorian chuckled, low and sweet, and then suddenly cut off. “—Oh, you’re serious.”

“I have never once made a joke about dancing.”

“Only because I’m sure one has never occurred to you.” He glanced around them, frowning just a touch. “…Are you sure? There are a lot of ways to make a distraction. Ones less personally scandalous, I’m sure. I know you don’t care much for the spotlight.”

He grinned again. “I think you will find I am very good at being in the spotlight, when I am putting on a show. Why? Are _you_ afraid of their gossip?”

“Hm.” Another quick glance out into the crowd—looking for Adaar? Trevelyan’s blood boiled—and then suddenly Dorian was accepting, joining their hands and leading him out onto the dance floor proper. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The first minute or so was spent adjusting. The floor was so polished that he could see their reflections in it. Dorian led—it seemed almost natural that he would, setting an easy rhythm that took them in a path through the other couples. The lights felt much brighter out here, the noises all more acute. A thousand whispering voices and clacking shoes vied for Trevelyan’s attention. And yet, the hand firmly placed on his hip was infinitely more important than any secrets that he might have picked up in passing, anchored him there. After that minute, he was even able to look the other man in the eye, to survive seeing that gaze, almost gold from the lighting around them.

Dorian spoke first. “…You’re actually quite good at this.”

The praise made him feel warm. “Do I shock you?”

“No.” There his voice became playful. “ _Adaar_ being able to dance, that shocks me. You, on the other hand…I suppose I just never pictured it.”

Curious. He wondered what, if anything, Dorian generally imagined for him. “There are a lot of things people don’t picture me doing. But there were balls at Ostwick too. Smaller ones.”

For that he was given a gentle smirk, shifting in time with the other dancers and feeling that odd, calming harmony that only seemed to descend when Dorian was around. Then, abruptly, Dorian laughed. A soft, feathery thing. “Would it surprise you to hear that this is actually my first time doing this?”

“What? A waltz?”

“Dancing. In public. With a man.” Another look around them, something sad entering his smile. Perhaps he wasn’t searching for Adaar. “I could grow old and die, waiting for an invitation in the Imperium. Such things aren’t done.”

“Why?” Their pace slowed, the music winding down. He was aware of Tevinter’s attitudes on same-sex relationships, but the whole thing was a little hard for him to conceive without witnessing it. “There’s no harm in just dancing, is there?”

“But it’s never just that, Trevelyan. Don’t you know?” He spoke with bitterness and sarcasm, pausing to pull back and bow as the music came to a halt. “If you dance with someone, it means you’re fucking them.”

Trevelyan just barely slapped a hand over his mouth in time to cut off a bark of a laugh that would have echoed across the room. Light sparkled in Dorian’s eyes, and he held out a hand again as the music started to switch tunes.

“Another round? I dare say that felt entirely too short.”

“Of course.” He accepted Dorian’s hand, and then tugged him in hard. “But given that you just told me you’ve never danced with a male partner before, I’m leading this time.”

There was a brief stumble as Dorian adjusted to the new direction, but he recovered well, looking faintly stupefied for a moment as they moved through the room. “Oh.”

He was radiant, even in the awful uniforms that Josephine had foisted upon them. He made anything look good. Dorian could be covered entirely in blood and gore, and he would still—Oh, actually, that would be rather interesting…

“You’re smiling an awful lot,” he observed, after a moment.

Trevelyan fixed his grin in place, widening his eyes. “Does my smiling bother you?”

That earned a chuckle. “Me? Don’t be ridiculous. You are giving the other dancers a fright, however.”

Though initially tempted to argue that the other dancers were simply staring because Trevelyan was a Marcher and Dorian was a Tevinter and the both of them were dressed like nutcrackers, one glance out proved the words true. He popped his brows at a woman who had slowed in her steps to stare; she put a hand to her chest as though struck.

Now, Dorian was laughing. That catching, rich thing that only came about when he meant it.

It was incredible, what a simple joy it was to hear that. Not because he liked the way it sounded in his ears, something he would savor if he could. But because it meant that he had granted Dorian something. That he was free of himself, for a while, and so Trevelyan could be too.

The murmurs ruined it. The ones that meant Adaar had re-entered the room, and that the distraction was no longer necessary.

Something attracted Dorian’s eye, a streak of tension catching on his delicate facial muscles. He paused in his step.

Without warning, Trevelyan pulled him into a flourish. He sped up the tempo of their dance. For a moment there was a pause, a stutter in Dorian’s rhythm.

Then he matched him, step for step.

Closer—far closer than perhaps was appropriate for a formal occasion such as this, though not nearly as close as he truly wanted to be. And that laughter, like cold water on a hot day, was in his ear and against his skin, and though it made his insides writhe the sensation was one he wanted to continue forever.

But like all things pleasant, it was over all too quickly. The music slowed. The dancers around them began to wind down. And, finally, Dorian led him to the side, flushed and nearly breathless, but smiling nonetheless.

“I…thank you. We’re in the midst of a battle that may very well decide the fate of an entire empire, and the countries around it…but that was actually quite fun.” A twitch of his lip. “Not my usual kind, either.”

Trevelyan was really, fully prepared to say something sappy, but it was at that moment that the dance floor cleared for Celene’s speech to her people. And her subsequent stabbing and death.

It was almost as though his teeth grew sharper the quicker his pulse raced, looking to Dorian, whose own expression had grown somewhat grim. “Now it’s time for _my_ usual kind of fun, I think.”

And then they raced through the crowded ballroom full of stunned onlookers, careful not to slip on the puddle of Empress Celene’s blood as they, with Adaar, chased Florianne into the night.

The party went on after that, which surprised no one who was even remotely familiar with Orlesian social events. Adaar had excused himself from the party to discuss negotiations (blackmail) with Briala and Gaspard, which left the rest of the Inquisition’s inner circle to mingle.

Trevelyan felt like his veins were on fire, and he was loving it. He was still flush with the fight earlier, even if he hadn’t been the one to strike the killing blow. All of the tension from the party itself had flowed through him in a maddening, delightful rush that made him feel secure, _in control_. Now, nothing seemed insurmountable.

Nothing.

Dorian had said something about needing some air. The balcony, then. A servant passed by with a tray full of glasses of dark wine, and Trevelyan plucked two without stopping in his stride, giving a grin that sent a couple people scurrying. Now, it was simply a matter of making it to said balcony without spilling the glasses in his hands—and that ended up being no small feat. The calm and collected part of the evening that involved militarized socializing had given way to clustering crowds of roiling gossip and the occasional tug out onto the dance floor. Nothing as severe as what he had seen at parties in Ostwick, but certainly enough to threaten his wine.

Midway through, his way was barred by a pale woman with raven-black hair and a smile that suggested _she_ was the one turning people into toads.

“Morrigan,” he said, shark-grin going up like a shield.

“Trevelyan, was it?” The cut of her dress was very similar to that of many other Orlesian women in attendance, but with a few alterations to just skirt the line of impropriety. A neckline that plunged just a bit too low. Just a touch too many glittering jewels around the shoulders. “Quite a performance you put on earlier.”

His eyes snapped back up to her face, to her perfectly applied makeup and the amused look in her bewitching yellow eyes. The eyes of a hunter. One that could fly. A bird, perhaps? Or something…larger. “The dancing?”

“I refer more to the slaughter and mayhem.” She inclined her head just slightly. “Though the dancing too, yes. And here I had heard that Pavus was the _Inquisitor’s_ paramour. Is the gossip wrong?”

Something inside him sparked uncomfortably. Dorian words flashed helpfully in his mind. “Two people can dance without there being anything more to it.”

“True,” she said, in a tone that suggested she didn’t believe it.

He swallowed the urge to bite back, only saying, “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Lady Morrigan?”

If he didn’t know better, he might have called the expression on her face wistful. “I once traveled in a group much similar to the circle you now run in. I am simply…curious with whom the Inquisitor chooses to surround himself. ‘Tis a good indicator of what kind of man I will be working with.”

Working with? He cocked his head to the side.

“Emperor Gaspard, or shall I say his puppet master, has made clear that I am expected to leave court to aid in the Inquisition’s efforts.” The curve of a smile on her lips made it obvious that this outcome was one that pleased her.

Idly, he considered what that meant to be working with Morrigan. Certainly she was very alluring, in a dangerous sort of way. The kind of person that put him on edge, but pleasantly so. She was a mage, too, and an _apostate,_ at that. Who knew what magics she possessed? What hidden arts she carried that all circle study could only dream of? Was she the sort that liked to share?

If he had met her fresh from his home estate, or even right after being recruited into the Inquisition, he could probably spend days captivated by thoughts of her.

Funny. All he could think about now was another mage with a wicked smile and softer eyes.

“That’s all very well and good, but you will have to excuse me. I have someone I would like to find, Lady Morrigan.”

She bowed back gracefully. “Very well. There will be time enough for proper introductions later.”

The crowd was somehow easier to navigate safely without spilling his drinks, past her. It was obvious that the nobles were not eager to be in her presence for long. After getting turned around only once he managed to make his way to the doors that led into the cold night air, to where he was sure to find Dorian.

A thought struck him just as he reached the doors. Gaspard’s puppet master had given Morrigan her walking papers.

That meant the political situation had been resolved.

Did _that_ mean…?

Trevelyan stiffened.

Adaar was standing with Dorian on the balcony.

They were kissing.

The big qunari had one hand around Dorian’s waist, pressing him lightly against the railing with an assured and protective strength. The other he had cupping his cheek, blunted nails trailing softly around his jaw and just behind his ear. One of Dorian’s arms was hooked around Adaar’s neck, the other seemingly exploring the great expanse of his back. The two of them were entirely deaf to the world, oblivious to the fact that they now had an audience.

Fingers gripping the glass-stems tightly, Trevelyan’s insides cooled, feeling something sharp hack away at them.

“Ah,” he said. “Okay.”

His voice was too soft to be heard. They did not stir, save for Adaar making a slight push, evidently his enormous qunari _tongue_ fitting decently in Dorian’s mouth, touching his perfect teeth. Trevelyan felt the slightest bit nauseous, pulling back rapidly so that he was no longer looking.

Even if the image remained burned into his eyes.

From across the hall he could hear cackling and screaming—Sera had, perhaps, unleashed the jar of roaches he’d offered her to liven things up a bit.

He dumped the wine in a nearby potted plant, throwing the flutes to the ground with that lovely, melodic chime of broken glass, and then stalked in that direction, fists clenching and unclenching.


	4. Chapter 4

The bar that the Inquisition soldiers had taken over for the night was the largest in the neighborhood; someplace that used to be the height of society, but then fortune had turned and suddenly it was stuck in a seedy street with no way out. Josephine had almost had a panic attack over the venue for their celebrations of Halamshiral’s success, but she’d been overruled by a wide margin (and then offered everything from flowers to sweet tea in a bid to soothe her bruised dignity, which had a partial success rate).

Everything was fairly raucous, though evidently their commander’s discipline still held well enough that no fistfights had broken out. The survivors of the year’s deadliest ball simply wanted to celebrate their success, and evidently that meant that comradery and harmless foolishness was the tune of the evening.

Dorian had spent the trip up to Val Royeaux grousing about the mud and wet and cold. Then, he’d fussed about with his uniform for hours before they arrived at the Winter Palace, practically throwing a fit when he wasn’t able to find the products he normally used for styling his hair on special occasions. Now, he stood singing some Fereldan folk song with several drunken soldiers, covered in bruises that had progressed to a pleasant purple against his skin and his normally immaculate hair practically standing up in every direction. His casual clothing couldn’t really rumple, per se, but some of his belts were loose and the buckles were scuffed. It didn’t look as though he minded at all.

Trevelyan leaned on the balcony of the upper floor of the tavern, resting his cheek on his palm and watching.

Caelus had sent another message. How he had found the suite where they were staying was a mystery. It had been waiting for him in his pack as though deposited there by a ghost, and he’d snatched it up with a sudden alarm that someone would somehow go through his things and see it. The contents had been simple. A demand for contact, false expressions of concern, asking on the state of Orlais now that Celene was dead, etc etc. It would be prudent to craft his reply soon—to that end perhaps he shouldn’t be here tonight, but then…the atmosphere of the bar was so comfy, and with all the bodies packed into one building it was fairly warm, even on the less dense second floor.

And he had such a nice view, too.

Dorian was positively shameless, and he loved it. This was not the face of the refined man who sat comfortably in the library doing research, nor was it the powerful mage on the battlefield with lightning in his eyes. This was someone entirely different, a force of nature that commanded the room by sheer personality alone. Despite realizing that this was entirely against his better judgment, Trevelyan couldn’t help himself being enraptured. This was better than any performance he could watch.

The song ended, the discordant melody breaking off into laughter and merriment as some drunker soldiers warbled out another tune. Dorian was talking now, voice too quiet to get heard over the din, but it ended with a glance around the tavern as a scout with broad shoulders paid for another round of alcohol.

Without warning, their eyes met.

Dorian grinned, and Trevelyan’s heart dizzyingly skipped a beat.

He neatly and easily excused himself from the celebrating crowd, practically hopping over every other step until he was suddenly there, two mugs in his hand.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he said brightly.

And, having already downed a few glasses himself, Trevelyan replied, “I fancy seeing you everywhere.”

Dorian’s laugh was comforting and deep as ever. “Of course you do. I’m a dream. Would you mind some company?” he said, gesturing to a table nearby that had somehow managed to remain empty.

They sat across from each other, the light of the lanterns reflecting off Dorian’s eyes and making them warm. He drank in slow slips, the kind of someone who was already a touch tipsy but didn’t want to quit just yet. Trevelyan felt much the same, though he was positive he had consumed less.

“Come, why are you lurking up here away from the party? Have they still been giving you grief? Because I will gladly set their smallclothes on fire, if you like.”

It was tempting to lie and say yes just so he could be witness to that. “Bizarrely enough I find that fighting alongside people improves their attitude towards you. No matter how much evil cackling you engage in while you do it.”

Dorian snorted. “I’m not surprised. These people—the ones on the front lines—they’re the ones who remember who stepped in to pull their ass from the fire. They’re the ones who had to do all the fighting in the Plains, and the Graves, and Emprise. They know the score. It’s the others, the—the politicians and religious clerks who sit on the sidelines and judge, those are the ones that are intolerable.”

Trevelyan drank from his mug, savoring the taste. It wasn’t the best thing he’d ever drunken, of course, but it was certainly ahead of anything they served at the Herald’s Rest back at Skyhold. Adaar should be insulted. “You sound like you have someone very specific you are thinking of.”

“How perceptive of you.” He took a moment to snarl, an action that made his nose wrinkle in the most delightful fashion. “You’ve met Mother Giselle?”

At some point, Trevelyan’s leg had started bouncing under the table. He knew not when, but noticed it just as a flash of irritation passed over him. “Yes, I have met Mother Giselle.”

“Do you know what she said to me?” His eyes looked so wonderfully dark. Despite being in his more customary leathers, Dorian had yet to clean off the makeup on his face that he’d worn for the ball. It was terribly striking, especially now that it was slightly smeared and faded from both the fighting and the rabble rousing. Just enough to look the slightest bit uncouth. “Just after Adaar and I—well, she corners me on my way to my room to get changed out of those wretched garments. She starts making gentle ‘inquiries’ as to my intentions with him.”

“How positively obscene.”

“Apparently her flock is so very concerned that there is a Tevinter snake whispering in the Inquisitor’s ear, looking to twist him against the path of righteousness or some poppycock like that.” There was a pause as Dorian took a hearty draught of ale. “As if he would ever…Well, the idea that I can influence him in any fashion is patently ludicrous. We don’t even—” And then he stopped to drink again.

“I’ve never liked Chantry mothers”, Trevelyan said into the lull. “They’re always—” It was hard to put into words things he had been feeling since he was a young boy, clenching his fingers and watching the way it creased his gloves. “I hate when they _smile._ ”

“Egads, yes. Can’t have the smiling.” He glared over in Dorian’s direction, but saw no sarcasm there. Only patient amusement.

“When I was young—” He shook his head. “Never mind. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. You are very honorable and not the least prone to flicking your tongue like a snake. Even I can see that.”

“Even you, hm?” Dorian clinked their glasses together. “I think you are more honorable than you pretend to be, Alexiel.”

His mind flickered to the missive, burning a hole in his pack. “I am not.” Then he startled, head dropping to the side. “You’ve called me Alexiel.”

“Mm?” Dorian lifted a brow, mid-sip, before swallowing and saying, “That is your name, isn’t it?”

“Normally you call me Trevelyan.”

“Normally, we are in much more formal circumstances.” He seemed to mull something over, glancing up at the ceiling, before he admitted, “And I have come to realize that you are the only person in Adaar’s inner circle save that damnable Blackwall that I am on such terms with. …I was being distant on purpose and it was unfair of me, so I apologize. --Would you prefer I did not?”

It occurred to him, a second too late, that the customary rise in stress that usually accompanied hearing his given name said out loud was absent when Dorian used it. “You—you can call me whatever you like. I’m just not—I don’t normally get on first name basis with people. …Even in my family, it was usually diminutive nicknames like…’Lexy’.”

“Adaar calls you by your first name.”

Trevelyan scowled. “Very cheeky of him, too.”

“Hmm, I am starting to see why you are up here drinking alone. –Come! Everyone has been out celebrating. You should too. Loathsome sticks in the mud aside, people can be quite a lot of fun, if you give them a chance one on one. Even if it’s just for the evening.”

“Do you think that a single evening will cure my utter contempt for humanity?” he said brightly, showing teeth.

Dorian burst out laughing. “What an unsociable creature you are! You’re in Val Royeaux. City of love, so I’m told. Surely there must be someone here that is to your taste.”

Trevelyan looked down at his hands.

Leaning in on his palm, Dorian’s tone grew conspiratorial. “You know there have been a handful of young women looking in your direction for the past few minutes, yes?”

He blinked, glancing towards a corner table. “Them? I thought they were sizing me up.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure they were.”

“To rob me.”

“Quite.”

“With weapons,” he said, more pointedly.

“Let it not be said that Dorian Pavus is the sort to judge what people do in the sanctity of the boudoir.” He drank his own mug dry, chuckling lightly as he did. “And you are far too paranoid. You should enjoy yourself while you can.”

“Spending an evening with strange women is not my idea of enjoying myself.”

“No? Are they not your…cup of tea, perhaps?” Dorian was eyeing him with a peculiar intensity, and it grew harder to speak.

He wanted to tell him that he could drink many different types of tea. That tea might not have always been his favorite thing in the world, but once he’d found a flavor he enjoyed he liked to drink the whole pot rather than just one measly cup. That, indeed, there was only one kind of tea that he had really been craving since—since _Haven_ , and it was the only kind that he was thoroughly convinced he would never be allowed even a slight sip.

He got as far as “Well, actually Dorian, I—" before a finger had been laid upon his lips to shush him.

“This is sounding like a confession. Is it a confession? Because I abhor confessions.”

“Ah.” Trevelyan paused, face scrunching up a little in thought. “—What is the difference between a confession and someone simply telling you something?”

Dorian appeared to genuinely ponder the question. “Melodrama. –Is it something you are able to say without melodrama?”

“Yes. –Wait.” What, exactly, did he want to say? “ _Being around you makes my heart pound and make my skin feel as explosive as the charges I attach to my arrows_ ”—that sounded a little bit melodramatic. “Maybe?”

“Perhaps you will need to mull it over.” Dorian took Trevelyan’s mug out of his unresisting hand and downed what was left in it. “Try excising anything that starts with, ‘my heart is a yawning pit of utter despair incapable of opening up to another person’.”

“If my heart is a yawning pit, doesn’t that make it already open?”

“Don’t look at me, it’s your metaphor.” He pushed the mug back, and Trevelyan struggled very hard not to fixate too heavily on the fact that Dorian’s full lips had just touched the rim. If he looked closely enough he could probably see a slight moisture imprint on where they had rested.

No. That was more melodrama, not less. “—Well, it’s wrong anyway. There’s only a little bit of despair. The rest is…” He longed to tug off his gloves and touch the rim of the mug with his fingers. Perhaps that would be alright? …Dorian had seen his hands already. “The rest is…uh…” He was close. The table was not that wide. He didn’t have to settle for secondhand contact. He could touch a finger to Dorian’s lips right now. He was so close.

Then he heard from below the sound of a door opening, and the ambient noise shifted dramatically from general chatter to awed whispers.

Dorian stood. “—Hold that thought.”

A sudden flush of dismay washed over Trevelyan, struggling to get to his feet with the same quickness as his drinking companion. “M—wh—Wait, Dorian—”

It took very little time to see what all the fuss was about, primarily because the fuss was about a man who was at least two heads taller than everyone else in attendance (as the Bull was out drinking with the Chargers in a separate pub). Just as quickly as he had climbed up, Dorian was taking every second step back down to the ground floor, greeting Adaar with a warm smile.

In the dimmed noise it was just possible to make out the words they exchanged.

“How did I know that I would be able to find you here?” Adaar. Rich and deep.

“How did I know that I was waiting for you?” Dorian. Smooth and light.

They left together.

Trevelyan pulled away from the banister, practically falling down into his chair and feeling his insides wobble as he struggled to put the room in order, to fight back the swimming feeling. It was possible that he’d had a little bit too much to drink. His lungs felt as though they were positively soaked.

They always left together.

He was never with Dorian but they always left together.

This was why he didn’t drink. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time…

“He wouldn’t be mad,” someone said suddenly in front of him.

Trevelyan had to take a second to reign in his immediate instinct to startle and throw something, because he knew for a fact that Cole hadn’t been there a moment ago. “You need to—you need to stop Fade-stepping everywhere.”

“I’m not. You don’t see and then you do.” He looked up at him from under the brim of his wide hat. “I didn’t have to hide. You were watching Dorian, even after he left. Sorry. Your thoughts get very loud sometimes, all pain and no words. –But I know you don’t like it when I do that. Compassion. For you, I mean. But I wanted to talk to you. Can I?”

The boy looked as though he might be glowing under the torchlights. There was nothing holy or angelic about it. The light made him look pale, weak, and shivery.

“—You can talk to me but I can’t promise to understand a word that comes out of your mouth.”

Cole twiddled his thumbs, a gesture that looked stiff and unnerving on him. The form he had chosen was that of a boy dying in a cell. Even if he wasn’t literally a walking dead person, the resemblance was uncanny. Most days, it was part of why Trevelyan liked him so much. He was always terribly entranced with the disturbing. “How do you not be a monster?”

He blinked. “What?”

Perhaps out of deference to his warning, Cole spoke more slowly. “You don’t care about people. Them—the ones in the tavern, in the halls, the names you can’t remember, the faces you always forget. You care about us. But you don’t care about people. You aren’t afraid of hurting them. And you like killing. But, you only kill when you need to.”

Trevelyan braced himself on his forearms and leaned forward, quirking one of his brows. “At this point you are just stating information I already know. Because I am me. What is the point?”

“—Why? –How?” Cole sounded frustrated, though it was impossible to judge whether this was with Trevelyan or his own inability to put his thoughts to words. “Why do you—not? How do you know not to?”

“Because I’m not...” He frowned, leaning further, as though losing his balance on his seat. “—Are you insulting me?”

“ _I_ kill!” Cole wailed, and it was very fortunate that the bar was as crowded as it was because otherwise someone might have heard and been very concerned. “I kill because I have to. I’m supposed to heal harm, soothe sorrow—I want to _help_ , but I kill. Killing ends hurt, and it feels _good_ , but it’s not helping!”

The echo of his words drowned out the roar of the crowd. Trevelyan sat forward a little, feeling that unusual pull inside his chest, the recognition of someone else’s suffering and the desire to alleviate it. He was not used to feeling it. So he had no idea how to resolve it.

“I don’t want to go back,” Cole finally said, more quietly. Face entirely obscured by the brim of his hat. “Killing to feel alive. It was wrong. I was…wrong. I need to know how to never be like that again. How do you keep from killing when you don’t have to?”

Perhaps if Trevelyan’s brain wasn’t sloshed up with more alcohol than he was used to drinking, the answer would come much more easily. “I—well, killing is usually uncomfortable if I’m not in the mood for it. –Like sex? Oh, wait, you haven’t done that…” He scratched his head, sighing. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m not killing everyone in this bar to make myself feel better.”

“ _The knife glides, soothing, slick, sharp, and as I make pieces I become whole._ But there are things to hold on to. How do you hold them through blood-soaked fingers?”

Instead of killing anything, though, he just dropped his head to the table.

“…Ask me again when I’m sober, Cole.”


	5. Chapter 5

Ponchard was a greasy little man with buttons too large for his suit and a shiny bald head that wasn’t adequately covered by his gaudy mask.

He took one look at Trevelyan and sniffed in a way that only Orlesian merchants wearing hand-me-down doublets could. “You are not the Inquisitor.”

“Well, goodness. Here I was getting all excited about being in charge.” Trevelyan grinned at him wolfishly, sitting back in his chair and tapping lightly on the table. “Silly me. I suppose I’m actually just one of his inner circle.”

The café they sat in was classy and open, overlooking a walled-in garden with deep green, precisely cut grass and elegantly selected flowers. All around them sat Val Royeaux’s elite. Chatting, clutching at their pearls, making a general nuisance of themselves. A far cry from the down to earth, crude soldiers littering the bar where Trevelyan had miserably spent the night before he was able to track down a potion maker and do something about his hangover.

It was moments like this that Trevelyan understood most acutely why Sera had made this her home for so long. So many fresh targets. So many opportunities. An isolated little world full of people so secure in their wealth and the imagined constraints of status that they were entirely defenseless to someone who was not bound by their social rules.

Ponchard was looking an awful lot like a sheep, right about then…

“I specifically arranged this meeting because you promised me I would be speaking to the Inquisitor.” He brushed imaginary dirt off of his immaculate shoulders and then pressed his hands on the table to stand. “If you cannot deliver, then this has been a waste of my time.”

Trevelyan was right before him in a heartbeat, showing as many teeth as he was able. “Sit down, please. I will let you know when I’m done with you.”

The threat didn’t seem to have entirely the intended effect—there was no yelping in surprise, no quaking of the man’s knees. But after a brief, put-out huff, Ponchard did as he was ordered, rolling his eyes under the mask. “If you insist.”

Trevelyan returned to his seat in kind, crossing one leg over the other. His cheeks were starting to hurt, but that was an ache he almost never noticed. “This is fun. I should get out more.”

No reply.

Warm delight was welling up inside him.

“Well, in the interest of _not_ wasting anyone’s time, let’s get right to brass tacks, shall we?” Beneath the mask he could see Ponchard’s eyes, could see how they turned to him even as he made a show of pointing his face away. “My friend Dorian had an amulet. He apparently sold it to you. Now that he has coin, you are refusing to sell it back. Care to explain?”

“I am not a fence,” he said curtly, adjusting his posture so that he at least appeared to be sitting there of his own will. “I agreed to purchase the amulet because of what it _was._ Not for mere cash value.”

“And what is it?”

“The House Pavus _birthright_.”

Treveyan shrugged. “I heard him say that, but I don’t know what that is.”

The disgusted noise that Ponchard made should have been insulting, but it reminded him so much of Cassandra that it was a genuine struggle not to burst out giggling. “A birthright is useful for doing business in the Tevinter Imperium, even if it is not your own. There are…select situations where it is almost invaluable.”

By the tone of his voice it was clear he saw any further explanation to be a wasted effort. No matter. The picture was clear.

The merchant continued. “I am to understand that Monsieur Pavus has begun a very…particular sort of relationship with the Inquisitor. It was my hope that he would come to resolve the situation himself, to please his new paramour, and thus I could negotiate for the usage of his influence in return for the amulet. Perhaps your young man does not inspire that sort of ardor, however.”

Something very thin and brittle snapped in Trevelyan’s chest, and all the fluttering giddiness condensed into something much harder. “The Inquisitor is far too busy to waste a single minute with a rat like you, but allow me to give you a better offer in his stead.”

The indignant scoff that followed his statement was like nails on a chalkboard. “You? What could a member of the Inquisition’s rank and file offer me?”

“I am not a member of the rank and file. My name,” he said quietly, “Is Alexiel Trevelyan.”

He saw it, the very moment Ponchard’s blood went cold. The moment his posture stiffened, as though he was frozen.

"My offer is this.” Under the table his leg was now furiously bouncing, but up above it his body language was relaxed and still. “Hand over Dorian’s amulet, and I don’t use _my_ familial connections to destroy any possibility you have for social climbing. With or without Adaar’s input. Do those terms sound fair to you?”

“You—you can’t do this. He sold the amulet to me—I am well within my rights to—"

He leaned over, clutched Ponchard by the collar to pull him in, and slammed a knife through the fabric of his shirt to pin him to the table’s wooden surface.

No one so much as looked in their direction.

Interesting.

“Hand over the amulet,” Trevelyan breathed, sharp teeth inches away from Ponchard’s exposed throat, “And not only will I _not_ destroy your capacity to do business in the Free Marches, but I also won’t rearrange your face so that it looks like the mask you have on. Does that sound fair to you?” Ponchard wriggled, but he couldn’t break free, evidently unwilling to pull hard enough to tear his clothing. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m not threatening you. I am telling you something that I will do, simply because it would give me pleasure. And I am also telling you something you may do to dissuade me from it. If I walk out of this café with Dorian’s birthright in my pocket, then you get to walk out with your legs intact. That’s the deal.”

"I don’t—” His voice came out squeaky and hoarse, and it was so much fun. “I don’t have the amulet with me, monsieur. I have it elsewhere for safe keeping. –But I will have it sent to you. As soon as possible, I swear it. I meant no offense. Please pass along my humblest apologies to your friend.”

“I will!” Trevelyan allowed sweetness into his tone, patting Ponchard companionably on the shoulder as he tugged the knife free of the table. “I’m so glad that you see things my way, good ser. I will be sure to tell my family what a reasonable man you are.”

Ponchard was hard to read under the mask, but his voice seemed to take on a bemused relief. “Yes, thank you—you are most kind.”

He adjusted the fit of his gloves, idly flipping the knife around in his hand before slipping it back into his belt. “I would go for expedited delivery with that amulet, if I were you. If I have to wait too long I might need to… _drop by_ and make sure everything is alright. Out of concern for you, you understand.”

“Of course, monsieur. Right away. It is the first thing I will do.” When the man stood, he knocked against his chair. His bow was stiff, and jittery. Displaying remarkable self-control, he walked away from the table instead of sprinting from it.

Trevelyan chuckled to himself, when he was alone.

A waiter came by with a small tray of cheeses, and to the horror of few people there he took several blocks in his gloved hand before leaving. Their flavors were sharp as he rolled them around on his tongue, trying very hard to stay in his body instead of his mind. Away from the café—towards the marketplace.

Once he stood in an alleyway that opened up to the market, full of half-painted murals, he paused to crack his neck, grimacing. The bed at the inn had done his shoulder muscles no favors. Or perhaps it was staying up all night imagining where Adaar and Dorian had gone together that had messed him up. In either case, once his point of focus had vanished all the little aches and pains that came with recuperating from Halamshiral returned to him tenfold. He would need to find something else to occupy his time here.

Perhaps he could find Sera and ask her to show him all her old haunts. Being a Red Jenny on the prowl sounded far more interesting and exciting than being a wayward Trevelyan…

There was a blow of warm breath against his ear.

“What a show, Lexy.”

Then it was his turn to freeze, as an elven woman with auburn hair and a long scar down the side of one eyebrow sauntered around him like a quillback eyeing prey.

Though the first expression he actually made as their gazes locked was one large, fixed grin. “Ness. You little troublemaker, you almost gave me a heart attack, I would have had a heart attack, and then stabbed you. –Watched the whole thing with Ponchard, did you?”

Nessara, Caelus’ favorite in poisons and traps, smiled that perfect little smile of hers, the one that reminded him of a kitten, and he experienced the sensation of his skeleton attempting to leave its fleshy prison.

“I remember when you used to do that sort of thing for us,” She crooned, running a hand over his chest just long enough for him to flinch back. “I guess you _can_ join the ‘good guys’ and still get your kicks terrifying merchants.”

“Oh yes. Here I was worried I wouldn’t get to kill people. I get to kill a _lot_ of people. People who can put up a fight, too, which I was doing stunningly little of with you guys by the end,” he observed, having slight difficulty enunciating through the smile. “--You’ve done something different with your hair.”

"So what’s the verdict, then?” Her eyes hardened, the steel glint he used to think on so fondly before he’d pushed her and the rest of them entirely out of his mind. “Is joining some Chantry affiliated army under a quasi-holy warlord better for you than being in a band of mercenaries?”

Mercenary.

It made it sound so above-board. So neat. A band of specialists and hobbyists who all shared a common love of violence and wealth, gathering around campfires and in taverns to sing and make merry with their bloody spoils. Treasure hunters who plunged into decaying ruins for riches and ancient books.

“Bandits for hire” probably had too sour a taste in her mouth.

Trevelyan, on the other hand, much preferred to call a spade a spade. They shook people down for money. They killed caravans for their rival merchants. They scared peasants away from expensive estates. He hadn’t cared for Caelus’ increasingly frequent speeches about bettering the world, and he hadn’t cared for slaying helpless innocents and calling it “brave” and “righteous”. If he’d wanted hypocrisy _, if he’d wanted to be working for greasy red templars with crooked smiles and soulless, haunted eyes_ , he would have run back home.

“Caelus is worried that you’re not taking your role seriously anymore.” She put her hands on her hips, and he saw behind her a dwarven man with a beard patchy from scarring, buying a bag of sweets from a nearby stall. Garrian, round shield at his back, sword bound to his hip. “So, we want you to come back home with us. –Oh, and if you don’t, Caelus says to kill you.”

The words sounded distant and fuzzy, as though he was hearing them from underwater. Slowly and deliberately, he let his eyes wander the rest of the plaza, and saw who else had been sent to clean him up.

He saw Nathan admiring the statue in the center of the plaza, throwing knives not visible but probably tucked inside his jacket. Then there was also Ideena, long hair tied in an extremely tight bun and purchasing the bow and arrow she likely intended to fire at him with. Marc, standing casually in the crowd, drink in hand. Laurenz, lurking behind a pillar, good eye glinting in the dark shadow.

This was not supposed to be happening. They were words on parchment, existing in memory.

They weren’t supposed to show up.

Nessara was speaking again, and he brought his eyes to her. There was no conflict in her expression. There wasn’t even an attempt at persuasion. She was gloating. The actual substance of what came out of her mouth didn’t matter, because he knew precisely what she meant by it. This was just another day for her.

Trevelyan had no words to describe what he felt then.

It was always harder to get rid of his emotions when he couldn’t do that.

Of course he hadn’t expected them to be happy with him, not given the level of betrayal inherent in his going turncoat. He had not been thinking that they would beg him to come back, try to win him over. But what he had expected in the absence of that…Well, perhaps it was one of those things he just carefully didn’t think about.

For the first time in two years, he felt what he had when he’d sat in that soggy old cabin where they’d kept him, hands bound and nose dripping with salty, metallic blood that ran into his mouth.

But could that be called fear, when so much bloodlust raced through his veins?

His eyes closed.

He breathed in.

And then out.

When his eyes opened again, he saw before him six targets.

Before anyone could take another a step towards him, he threw down a flash bomb from his belt and promptly vanished from sight.

There was no way he could slip away entirely—target 1 and target 2 now patrolled the entrances to the marketplace with enough diligence that he would easily be caught that way. The only way out unguarded would be to travel via the upper levels, and as there were no stairs in the immediate vicinity he would have to climb up there. Not an impossible task by itself, but during that time he would be an easy mark for target 4’s thrown daggers.

His bow and arrow was back with the rest of his things at the tavern, but target 6 had hers, and he would gladly steal them for a moment. A quick slam against her calf—the weak leg, he remembered—and the pain had her grip weakened just enough for him to slip them away from her.

Of course, this inevitably revealed him to the rest of them as he brought the bow up to bear. He’d sacrificed his chance for surprise.

Nessara was lunging for him, and in his startlement he released the taut line. The arrow sliced through her neck. Blood gushed from the wound like a geyser, and then slowed as she raised a hand too late to stop it, eyes going dim and fuzzy.

As she fell, images flashed through his mind.

Chasing after prey together.

Laughing at the fire as they talked about their latest job.

Shared glances of appreciation, of mutual attraction never acted upon.

Gone. Forever.

A stave slammed into the back of his head, and Trevelyan went down. A foot pressed into his back, and though he was fighting to stay conscious he found time to wheeze and squirm as it pinned him to the cold ground. His gloves scrabbled uselessly against the stone and found no purchase. A familiar voice, cold and screeching, rang out from just above him. “—This farce has gone on too long! Let’s just kill him already!”

And perhaps that would offend him, but he’d never liked Laurenz all that much and could not hold it against him to feel the same.

A little bit of desperation fueled him, and he flipped himself over to look up at his attacker. Laurenz was as ugly as he’d been before and then some, bad eye hanging uselessly in his head. One moment, he was snarling, drawing his knife.

The next, his head was tumbling through the air.

A large shadow stood above him, silhouetted against the sun as a dark shape with a halo glowing around his elegantly curved horns. Trevelyan blinked up at the Herald of Andraste with his hand crackling green and his sword drawn, metal kite shield painted with the eye of the Inquisition in a rusty brown that could very well have been blood.

“I don’t appreciate thugs attacking my people,” Adaar snarled.

In the span of a few moments, the entire dynamic of the fight changed. Suddenly Trevelyan was not at all the center of attention, a dot on the outskirts as the large, foreboding Qunari drew the eyes of every bandit in the area. Other men popped out as though from behind the walls. People who had not seen fit to join in the fight earlier—people who had been in wait for a much bigger prize to be drawn in.

“You used me as bait.” Trevelyan could taste blood in his mouth as he pushed himself to his feet. His crookedly sharp teeth had nicked both his lip and his tongue. “ _You used me as bait.”_

Nathan—target 3-- _Nathan_ blinked at him in confusion as he beheld his rage, and then he was on the ground choking on his own blood, Trevelyan slicing him up the belly and biting his arm. Marc lunged, screaming in some mix of anguish and horror, and Adaar came in and bashed him back with his shield. As he wobbled in place Trevelyan launched an explosive charge, and then the contents of his head were all over the street.

From there it didn’t take them long. The rest of the herd were not as skilled. Adaar was his own personal battering ram, and Trevelyan picked them off like flies, cooling embers sitting heavy in his stomach. As the last dropped his sword mid-swing, soundlessly falling on his face, the two of them looked out into a sea of bodies and blood and horrified onlookers who hid behind their stalls and archways.

Caelus was not among them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you’ll forgive me tossing in a bunch of OCs that won’t get the development they probably should. 
> 
> I’ve always liked the idea that my Trevelyan’s morality depends on the people he’s close to. In a band of generally well-intentioned people he strives to be good and decent. Among a crew of ruthless bandits, on the other hand…


	6. Chapter 6

“You knew the whole time,” Trevelyan accused, pulling an arrow from where it was stuck in a man’s ribcage.

“Yes.” Adaar gazed down at him from where he stood idly wiping at the blood on his blade and the brains on his shield. “Well. Sort of. I didn’t know _that_ was going to happen. You being a mole, though, yes.”

They were practically surrounded by bodies, gore littering the street. Now that the initial wave of panic and terror had a minute to pass, a small crowd of interested onlookers had arrived to observe. Some pointed and murmured. One man with a particularly poofy hat appeared to be sketching the scene. Unlike, say, the response of Fereldan peasantry, no one appeared to be especially horrified, a few even talking with the guards who had arrived too late on the scene.

“Why didn’t you do anything about it?” It was almost offensive, really. All the time taken with codes, all the care with leaving no trace of even letter writing in his loft, the worrying that someone might see the bird carrying the message, or worse go into his room when he wasn’t there and get the wrong idea. All along he needn’t have bothered. “What was I to you? Just another mercenary looking for work.”

“A _talented_ mercenary with family connections who could hopefully improve our odds in getting Chantry support.”

The praise sent a lick of dark pride through him, but he persisted. “My family connections could have easily have been a net loss to you, as Josephine would have informed you. You could have told me to leave, if you thought I joined for the wrong reasons. You didn’t have to invite me in with open arms. You--”

Adaar made an exasperated noise, running a great hand over his clipped hair. “Alexiel, if I turned away allies simply because I found them suspicious, I would be working with zero people. _Zero_. Iron Bull _especially_ wouldn’t be here. You’ve heard what he used to say about Tal-Vashoth. And think of how many times he’s saved our asses. I dealt the cards I was given at the time.”

Trevelyan did have to admit that at the time he had joined, the Inquisition was significantly less impressive than it had ultimately become. The desperation had been something he was banking on, in fact.

A slight hysterical note seemed to enter Adaar’s voice as he continued. “And now, after all this time working together, I don’t think there’s a single one of you who hasn’t lied or been dishonest with me at some point. –At this rate I would be positively _stupefied_ if Solas turned out to really be just some random apostate hobo from some village in the middle of the nowhere who’s spent his entire life dreaming.”

There was something of a crowd beginning to grow around _them_ , specifically—onlookers who were caught up watching the big horned man with the glowing hand ranting at his companion, the both of them still covered in blood. Now, Adaar was not the sort of man one could simply bind in rope and keep their arms intact, but maybe it wasn’t a good idea to linger long enough for anyone to get ideas. Trevelyan cleared his throat.

“Perhaps we best get going.”

Adaar grumbled and put a hand to his forehead. “Right.”

The rest of the Inquisition members returning to Skyhold weren’t far off from the market. They started off in that direction, pace brisk.

“The point is,” Adaar said, exhaling as they walked, “Despite all of those things, I have never doubted any of you when it comes to having my back. …You included. I had Leliana keep an eye on what you were sending out. The original plan was to give you false information, confuse our enemies and keep them guessing. But you were already doing that on your own. You didn’t lie about wanting to join. Only the circumstances that led you here. –So I didn’t think I needed to give the matter any thought since.”

He was trusted.

He wanted to tell him what that meant to him. It was so simple. Adaar was a good man. Trevelyan liked following his orders. He liked what he’d become in the Inquisition. He hadn’t realized how much poisonous doubt had tainted that until suddenly it was gone, and he could see it with clear eyes. Adaar deserved to know.

In his mind’s eye he saw Dorian lying in Adaar’s bed, hair mussed, clothes strewn about the floor, kohl run from sweat.

“…Erroneous of me, perhaps, given all this mess...”

He scowled and said only, “What are you doing out here anyway?”

There he was again, giving a beleaguered sigh. “Looking for you. You went off without telling anyone where you were going.” He coughed into his fist. “For obvious reasons I typically expect bad news when that happens.”

“That’s very perceptive of you. You have a knack for dramatic timing.” Trevelyan lightly slapped Adaar’s bicep. His palm stung, and he shook it out. “Perhaps we are characters in one of Varric’s stories.”

“Perhaps,” Adaar chuckled, before his expression turned grim again. “…There’s one thing I don’t understand. The men and women we killed back there—your former allies. Why did you turn on them? They _were_ your people, weren’t they?”

 _Your people._ No, no. That would mean he had killed the wrong targets. “Why? Are you worried that I’m going to turn on you, too?”

“No.”

“Then why do you want to talk about this?”

Adaar shrugged. “We’re friends?”

It was like the big dumb oaf had stabbed him right in the ribs, and he sputtered for several seconds before folding his arms. “They’re not _my_ people. Any more than my family is _my_ people. My people are—are people who I enjoy spending time around. People who understand.” Never mind that he might have thought they were. Never mind that he had mistaken social gestures of kindness for kinship, the sort his own kin had never offered him. Never mind everything. He’d killed them, so they could not be anything but dead bodies in the street. “Simply put, I grew tired of working with them and saw this as an easy out.”

“Why run away from a life of relative comfort and join such a crew in the first place, then?”

Trevelyan rolled his eyes. “I didn’t join them. They kidnapped me.”

Adaar shot him a double take, halting in his tracks. “Come again?”

“Surely you knew.”

“I did not.”

At that Trevelyan was the one who sighed. “My father was very wealthy. Very good with his money. And I spent a lot of time alone hunting on the estate. So they grabbed me one night. I suppose they believed that as the youngest I was doted upon, and that he would be willing to pay anything to get me back.” A slight smirk tugged his lips. “They were wrong on both counts.”

This was something he should have omitted, evidently—Adaar was giving him that _look_ , the one he hated, where they were suddenly on the wrong page again. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of this?”

Maybe if he smiled more it would seem less horrible. “My father hushed it up. Told everyone he’d shipped me off to the Templars, and then when it came out where I actually was, he told them it was by my choice. –It’s fairly in character for me. And _I_ certainly don’t like telling people that I was snagged while stalking a deer like some fucking amateur.” He started to walk again, keeping his voice casual. As though he was simply recounting the summer he got obsessed with the Grand Tourney. “I escaped several times. Each time, they brought me back. Made a bit of a sport out of it. It became…fun, after a while. Eventually, Caelus received my father’s refusal. And decided that he had better uses for me than filling a ditch somewhere.” Laughter began to bubble up in his throat. “He uh—he tried to spin this story about how the kidnapping was actually an ‘audition’, like he’d always intended to recruit me. It was very funny.”

The grim expression on Adaar’s face did not change. “It doesn’t sound very funny.”

“I guess you had to be there.”

They were starting to get into another colorful part of Val Royeaux again. There were looks in their direction, a few civilians who edged away or hid under shop counters. Still others—those who stocked armor, primarily—waved in the hope that it would get their attention. Trevelyan grinned and waved back as they passed them by.

“I didn’t leave them because of some laundry string of abuses,” he clarified. “I just…grew tired of them. Of who I was with them. I thought…I thought I was among people who were like me, who understood. But our last client was… --I was wrong.”

“I’m sorry.”

That sparked a sudden flare of anger in his stomach, and he whirled around on Adaar. “Don’t _apologize_ to me. Do you know the things I _did_ with them, willingly and of my own volition?”

Adaar brought up his hands defensively. “We’ve all done bad things. I was a mercenary. You think I haven’t seen my share of mud?”

“Not _lately_ ,” he muttered, turning away. “ _Lately_ you are the savior of the world and _beloved_ by everyone.”

“Everyone except you, apparently,” Adaar said lightly.

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“You are.” He clapped Trevelyan on the back, and nearly sent him stumbling. “Glad to have you aboard, Alexiel.”

The sentence seemed so final. Almost a retreat—The Inquisitor always got to decide when a conversation was over. Trevelyan wanted to discuss something else. He wanted to ask about Dorian.

They went the rest of the walk in silence.

On the way back, Adaar promised to take all the information that Trevelyan was able to offer and turn it over to his advisors. Not that he could imagine there was much in Josephine’s area that would apply, but Leliana and Cullen would certainly have use for it. It was about time his old crew was snuffed out completely. Now that they had cut ties first there was no point in belaboring it.

Adaar did not tell the others in the circle of what had transpired in that marketplace, or at least so Trevelyan thought. He traveled with them but far enough away to avoid conversation, as he usually did, though sometimes he would catch Sera making faces in his direction and be unable to stop himself from laughing. Varric left some treats by his tent the first night they stopped to make camp.

Skyhold was yet more bustling with people than it had been before the trip. Apparently Adaar and Josephine had been working on increasing trade within its walls, setting up supply networks in places like Crestwood and Emprise du Lion. So, not only did they have the outpouring of newly minted soldiers and the occasional refugee, but also merchants setting up stalls. None of them selling anything Trevelyan was interested in, of course. Not that he had the money to pay.

Odd, though, the new feeling that descended upon him as he stepped into that courtyard. He felt like…something heavy had been clinging to his back, and now it was simply gone, leaving him off balance.

He was ambushed when he made his way down to the old library where he felt most relaxed, the one that was too dusty for any of the visiting nobles to dare step inside. No sooner had he grabbed a book and sat down than Cole popped into existence on top of the enormous tome in the center of the room.

“It’s good!” He looked pleased. “It’s not gnawing away at you anymore.”

Trevelyan jumped, as per the norm, and then growled irritably, “Shush, you.” Actually wagging his finger. “I’m already out of sorts from you hassling me in Val Royeaux with your insane morality questions. I don’t need more probing into my psyche so soon after breakfast, thank you.”

“No questions. I’m just happy for you. I know you don’t like lying.” Cole must not have had any weight whatsoever, in that moment. If it had been anyone else sitting up on those pages, cross-legged, it would have toppled from its stand. As it was, there was only a light crinkling of the pages where he rested.

“Well. Good for me. It’s all out in the open. Glad you _also_ apparently _knew the entire time_.”

Cole didn’t blink. “I am sorry about the other hurt, though.” Trevelyan’s stern look didn’t come fast enough. “ _Voices welcoming around the fire, sour apples running with juice as Ness slices them open, ‘Well you’re **our** youngest now’—”_

“Shut up, Cole.” He said, more alarmed than angry. “Before you wake up something I can’t put back to sleep.”

“I’m sorry.”

He sat down on a shelf ledge that doubled as a bench, grabbing the book he’d set aside weeks ago before they left and forgot to bring with him for the journey to Halamshiral. Burying himself in books usually did the trick. Not forever—just enough to clear away the disruption that Val Royeaux had been, see things with fresh eyes. There was too much feeling there, for his tastes. Much better to be empty inside than full of things he couldn’t name.

Then he looked up and was jolted with both alarm, irritation, and a rush of warm, uncontrollable affection.

“—For fuck’s sake,” he snarled, slamming his book shut so hastily that he could see the tips of Dorian’s mustache waver in the backdraft.

He looked unimpressed. “Cole, would you give us a moment, please?”

“I don’t _own_ time,” Cole said, though he did vanish.

The moment that they were alone together, Trevelyan could feel his skin start to prickle. Everything inside him pulled in all directions, maddening his thoughts with a thousand suppressed impulses. Outwardly he did nothing. The book was almost limp in his hands as he opened it, the words scrambling before him.

Dorian’s boots were still in his line of sight. His eyes followed up the trail of his body—his perfect, distracting body--until they rested on his face again.

He smiled that practiced, noble smile of his and sat down on the other side of the bench. “Tell me what you’re reading.”

“Well, I’m not reading it right now, am I?” The text was on a popular Orlesian story on three sisters. He briefly displayed the cover. “There’s no ‘easing’ me into conversations, Dorian, I hope you know. Not that I mind having small talk with you, because you are exceptionally good at it, but you’re only inconveniencing yourself.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and slowly smoothing his fingers up his forehead. “Oh very well, if you _insist_ on being so blunt about everything. …Adaar told me about what happened.”

Trevelyan threw his head back against the wall. It hurt. “Amazing what one can glean from pillow talk.”

Dorian slapped his arm. That also hurt. “The Inquisitor and I do not do _pillow talk_ , you cretin.”

“Is there no pillow? Would ‘mattress talk’ be more accurate?”

“I can, quite literally, reduce you to charred ash with a snap of my fingers.”

“That’s so very sexy, Dorian.”

Slender, dusky fingers pushed his book down, and then set it off to the side. “Stop diverting the conversation.”

The prickling intensified. “I’m fine. What did he tell you exactly? About the fight? About the…kidnapping?”

“All of it.”

“—Blight take that man.”

“Now now. He was only concerned about you. He’s nauseating that way. Brought it up only to seek my opinion. You and I…we talk quite a bit. I guess he noticed.” Dorian looked a little unsure, on the last few words. “You _have_ been avoiding everyone.”

Trevelyan lifted a brow, head still laying back against the cold wall, wondering what this signified and if he even wanted to know. “I suppose.”

“The people that you were fighting,” Dorian continued cautiously. “They were your former comrades?”

“They had not been my comrades for some time. …Longer than they realized, I think. But yes.” Trevelyan had thought about that moment, that attack, several times over the past few days, trying to provoke himself again. Like picking at a scab. But he would be a fool not to acknowledge there were other parts of the wound he was ignoring. “The ones my…former leader sent, in particular, were ones I worked with very closely.”

“That must have been difficult. Or at least…unpleasant.”

He shrugged, looking forward. “…I thought it would hurt them more, to have to kill me. I thought it would be a harder decision. I was just disappointed that it wasn’t.”

“Well,” Dorian said lightly, crossing one leg over the other and relaxing. “If it makes you feel any better, if Adaar told me to kill you I would angst about it for a good hour or two at least.”

Trevelyan pitched forward a little, slapping a hand over his mouth to hide his ragged teeth as he cackled. The laughter lasted perhaps a little bit longer than the joke merited.

“What were you even hanging around there for, anyway?” Dorian asked when he was done.

He glanced over, saw the earnestness in his eyes, and felt his throat constrict. “Just…looking around. I always liked…seeing what the merchants had on display, in the market back home. Val Royeaux’s market is so much more splendid.”

“It is that,” Dorian conceded, though he didn’t look terribly convinced. “Alright, well, let’s try another question, something I’m genuinely curious about.” And then he was looking back out over the library in the painfully false, neutral way of his. “Your parents—allowed you to be kidnapped?”

A shock of pain.

Of course he would zero in on _that_ part.

“Yes, that happened,” Trevelyan said. “—I know what you’re thinking, Dorian. But our two situations aren’t at all similar.

“Oh yes. Very different. In my case, it was my _parents_ doing the kidnapping.”

"You know what I mean. Your situation was worse.”

“It’s not a competition,” Dorian snapped suddenly. “As if there was some award for having the worst parents. What would that even look like?”

“Probably a little statue of—”

“ _Rhetorical question.”_ He rubbed the spot just above the bridge of his nose. “If we’re talking fathers, I wouldn’t even bother comparing them. Being ignored and abandoned is not better than being controlled.”

“He didn’t ignore me _all the time._ Sometimes he—”

Sometimes he would invite his youngest to play chess or fence. And never let him win. Not once. Not even when it hurt. Sometimes he would say how little he was needed, how useless it was to have an extra child he hadn’t planned for. There was never any spite in it, though. It never felt like cruelty, not the way that it had when his mother had shouted in a drunken stupor that Alexiel was not an accident but a _mistake._ His was merely a total absence of affection. The difference between an infected arm and an amputated one.

“—I didn’t need coddling. I’m not some sad child craving attention. I don’t want--I don’t want _you of all people_ to pity me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Me of all people?” When Trevelyan didn’t reply, stewing in too much frustration for words, Dorian sighed. “I am not offering you pity, I am offering my _understanding_.”

There was a bottle of wine in his hands. Trevelyan considered saying something biting, but he never liked being unkind to Dorian. “…Is ‘understanding’ a euphemism for alcohol, by chance?”

With a small huff and a glance at the label, Dorian said, “No, the alcohol is for when I inevitably fuck up, and must resort to simpler measures for drowning out your sorrows.”

That got him to laugh. Somehow the action made Dorian smile, and that was so—so very very worth it that the irritation went away.

“I am not used to…understanding. Perhaps my exceedingly ungrateful manner is why no one has offered it to me.”

Dorian smirked, passing him the bottle. “Well, you’re in good company on that front, I think.”

Trevelyan drank almost automatically at that, popping the cork and downing some before it even hit his taste buds. He was thinking of being a spare, again. Sometimes instead of an icy lake his mind felt more like a riverbed. Clear until someone disrupted the muck at the bottom, sending it swirling around uncontrollably. He could feel that muck in his throat. “He wanted me to join the Templars. To make him look more pious.”

"That sounds positively ghastly.”

The words were tumbling out of his mouth again. Uncoordinated, uncontrolled. “I hated it. I hated everything about it. I hated using a sword. I hated shields. The way they taught archery was completely different from how I had already begun to learn and it was so much _worse_. The thought of being addicted to lyrium repulsed me. The religious studies were mind-numbingly dull.” A smile tugged at his lips. “The only things that interested me were the lessons on magic, and demons. Though with all I have learned since then I can look back and recognize most of it was propaganda. –Anyway. The moment I was able to wash out, I did.”

“Thank the Maker for that.” Dorian nudged his shoulder. “I can’t imagine what sort of man you’d be if you’d become a member. I don’t expect I’d have liked him much.”

The implicit statement that he liked him now did not go unnoticed, even if it went unremarked upon.

“He kept getting on me to rejoin. I almost…considered it. Once. ...He took me aside after my eldest brother’s engagement party. Spoke to me alone. Offered me some of his brandy. …He never did that.” His leg started to shake, bouncing so rigidly that the muscle seemed to be trembling. “After I’d had a drink, he gave me some very compelling reasons to join the Order, and then he told me very frankly what he thought I was.”

When he didn’t continue immediately, Dorian leaned in, impatient. “And what was that?”

“A monster.” There was a beat as the word sunk in. It felt fitting. “A monster whose only recourse was to embrace his vision of order or be put down like a dog.” The bottle was very temping in that moment. Trevelyan took another draught. The flavor was positively horrible, but the aftertaste–currants, he thought--was so exquisite that he couldn’t stop. “A candid man, my father. Unemotional. –I liked that about him, actually. I always knew where we stood. …And that was on two separate sides of a large room.”

“That sounds…abominable. To hear that from your own father,” Dorian said softly. “I am s-“

Trevelyan turned and snarled. “What did I tell you about the pity, Pavus?”

Whatever kindness that had been lurking in those grey eyes transformed into indignant irritation, and though that was not ideal it was still preferable. “You are impossible. Fine. I swear to never feel anything remotely like sympathy for you ever again. Satisfied?”

“Very.” Already the alcohol was starting to fuzz his mind a touch. Trevelyan set it aside. The occasional bout of revelry notwithstanding, he really wasn’t much of a drinker. “These things are all just memory. I turned him down, that is what matters. It’s not my home, anymore.”

For a short time after that, they sat in a companionable silence. Against which the crawling, tingling pressure that danced along Trevelyan’s skin in Dorian’s company stood out far more starkly.

It was as though his body was able to make demands that surpassed his thinking mind. _Lean into Dorian_ , it said. Something so innocuous, and yet so terribly dangerous to let become a reality. _He will feel very warm against you_ , it explained. _Rest your forehead on his shoulder and be safe there._ But he knew he would not be. And not just because of the knives that shot into his stomach whenever he saw Dorian with Adaar.

“I am not a man of emotions,” he murmured, not caring if he was heard. “And I never will be.”

Dorian stirred somewhat beside him, frowning up at the ceiling. “Funny. Back home, we have emotions all the time. We just pretend otherwise.”

They locked gazes for just a moment.

Then Dorian was speaking louder, faster. Harder to keep up with as he got around. “Yes, well, I appreciate you confiding in me. I understand it must have been difficult for you—heartlessness aside, of course. Certainly killed an afternoon, yes?”

Perhaps the room had gotten warmer, or more likely it was his back and face flushing hot. He hadn’t meant to say so much. To reveal so much. “You made it very easy,” he mumbled. “And you plied me with wine.”

“Let the record show I have never claimed to _not_ be a bad man.” Dorian stood, swiping the remainder of the bottle from Trevelyan’s grip and offering him an affectionate pat on the cheek. “I am Tevinter, and underhandedness is simply in my blood.”

The sweeping tide of tingling warmth that followed Dorian’s touch disabled him long enough that he could not say something clever back. His mouth opened enough that he felt it when he breathed in, and he struggled not to touch his cheek to feel where those clever fingers had been. Then he reached out and grabbed Dorian’s wrist with a suddenness that surprised even him.

When Trevelyan opened his mouth, it was bone dry, and he had to take a moment to wet his lips before speaking.

“I think I did need to talk,” he said up to Dorian’s confused expression. “Thank you. …I’m always—glad to talk to you. Regardless of your assertions, you are—you are a very considerate man.”

The look on Dorian’s face then was hard to parse. Not entirely warm. Not exactly dismayed. Carefully blank in the mouth and a schooled firmness of his brow. A smile crossed over it after a moment, though it didn’t look completely real, and uttered a jovial, “Flatterer. I’m not returning the wine.”

Trevelyan leaned to rest his chin on his hands, grinning up at him. “Oh, damn. I take it back, then.”

Thus released, Dorian chuckled and turned once more. “Next time try not to get embroiled in a fight to the death in the middle of a busy market. –Or, at the very least, invite me along. I do so love the excitement, you know.”

Just as he disappeared up the stairs, Trevelyan saw him take a long swig from the bottle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it’s not clear, the Inquisitor Trevelyan agreed (temporarily) to join the Templars instead of refusing, as his father promised to use his connections to have him be moved to his mage sister’s Circle. The war happened before that promise could bear fruit, and so he tagged along with the Templar faction to the Conclave in the hopes that said sister would be there. This one never went to the Conclave, for obvious reasons.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoy this chapter a lot, I hope you guys do too

The Pavus birthright was terribly lovely. A golden pendant that looked to be carved into the shape of a double-headed snake and a peacock feather, inlaid with glittering jewels of green, purple, pink, and white. The metalwork was intricately detailed, the snakes pebbled with scales and the feather blooming out of their shared body laced with delicate patterns. It was just the right level of ostentation and charm, and in that respect it suited Dorian perfectly.

For all its loveliness, though, it still looked like just a piece of jewelry to Trevelyan.

Leliana had been the one to receive the package when it came in. She’d lifted her brow at him but offered no comment outside of what might have been the vestiges of a cheeky smirk. And here he’d thought her humorless—or at least, humorless to _him_. Yes, there was something pitifully amusing about it, he supposed. With nothing of value to actually offer Dorian to express how he felt, he found himself resorting to giving him something that was already Dorian’s in the first place.

He sat in the basement library examining his prize, sliding off his gloves to touch the cool metal surface with the tips of his fingers and cradle the snakes against his palm. All that he could visualize was their material value, and aesthetic appreciation. Sentimentality was lost on him, he supposed. Yet still, he found himself curious.

Dorian despised his family—felt betrayed by them. Swore off everything Tevinter stood for. Continued to swear it off, even now that he had a shaky and infrequent correspondence with his father (correspondence which, from what he could gather, primarily consisted of Dorian filling his letters with accusations and vitriol, and Halward replying with condescendingly polite and pithy remarks about the goings-on in Qarinus). His family did not define him, and by now he had ample evidence that such an idea was true.

But he put snakes in everything he wore, and now this.

Why? Why was the amulet so important? Why try to belong?

Perhaps he would feel different, if he had grown up knowing what it was to be part of his family.

After a moment Trevelyan simply shrugged and slipped the gloves back on, putting the birthright in his pocket and making the trip back up the stairs.

It had been maybe a week or two since they had returned from Val Royeaux. He hadn’t seen Dorian since that afternoon in the basement library, the one where he had said too much and scared him off.

That was not so terribly uncommon to go long periods apart. They were both busy. Sometimes Leliana would send Trevelyan on errands with her spies (and in fact had sought his input more frequently on dealings with his old crew), sometimes Dorian would be engrossed in research. Then there was training to think about, keeping their equipment in order, all the myriad people around that they could waste time with…

Though, usually they at least were able to exchange greetings passing in the hallway every now and then.

He wondered, idly, if Adaar had been seeing as little of him too. The life of the Inquisitor was a busy one, lately. Between larger missions there would usually be a lull while Josephine, Leliana, and Cullen would sort through the impact on their forces and prepare for their next move. During which time Adaar would usually fill his hours with training and research, but also leisure time with his companions.

Such as having sex with Dorian.

Trevelyan swung his fist into the wall, smashing a spider and also bruising the meat of his hand on cold stone. He followed that up with a string of curses.

\--Now, Adaar was with Morrigan most hours that he wasn’t training or arguing in the War Room, trying to determine where Corypheus’ next step would be. For the time being all that was really left to do was prepare, and try to take stabs at his power base wherever they could. Free captured slaves, kill Venatori and Red Templars—track down precious family heirlooms.

“They won’t bite you.”

Trevelyan stared at Cole, who had not been standing in this hallway a moment before.

“Not why I kill them, Cole.”

Cole sighed, folding his arms. “I wish you’d stop. Their webs are helpful, and so are they.”

He patted him on the shoulder. “Is Dorian in his room? He wasn’t in the library.”

“Head full, heart bursting, hands rough from gripping the bottle. _This can’t happen. Must quiet it, must push it down._ –He’d like to be distracted but Adaar is too busy for _distractions_.”

Trevelyan stared at him for a moment before brightening. “–So he is, then? Wonderful. Thanks.” Clapping him on the back as he pushed past. “I just need to give him something.”

“He doesn’t see what you see when you look at him,” Cole called to him as he walked away. “He won’t get it.”

It wasn’t a long walk to Dorian’s room, in one of the wings just off the gardens, close to the library. It was a route he had taken on many a sleepless night, and he knew the path by his erratically beating heart, a slight bounce in his step as he got to the door and knocked on it once, twice, three times.

Dorian was inside.

He smelled of alcohol. But something higher-quality than what they served at the Herald’s Rest, something that was best suited to slow sipping at a party. His mustache was no longer elegantly curled, hair no longer perfectly combed. It rather had the look he would adopt when out on the road for several weeks, when he had finally given up on trying to look presentable and was just clinging to life white-knuckled until they could make it back to “what barely passes for civilization”.

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Very astute observation,” Dorian said simply, leaning against the door frame not because he was wobbling, but because he was obviously trying to look casual and not desperately avoiding some internal turmoil. “I can see why you do so much scouting.”

It was clear just by looking at him, at the expression on his face, that he had drunken enough to experience a time delay with the repression of his emotions, but not enough to appear like a drowned rat. It was a good amount. Very hard for Trevelyan himself to hit that point, with his tolerance level so low.

“Why have you been drinking?”

“Because I am trying to avoid something.” He grinned, putting a finger to his lips. “Don’t ask me what it is, I am still avoiding it.”

Gracious, why was he so stunningly attractive right then? His kohl was smudged—not the kind of disarray that came from heavy activity or tears, but mere carelessness. Yet it made his eyes look much larger and darker, crept out towards the black dot on his cheekbone and made his entire face smolder. His lips were slightly flush from drink. It made him want to—want to make him feel better.

A small voice in his head suggested he give Dorian the birthright another time, when he was more centered and in control of himself and less likely to make an awkward scene about it.

A much louder one insisted that this would cheer him up, and so must absolutely be done now.

“I have something for you,” he said, digging around in his pocket.

“What? No.” Dorian looked both dismayed and pleased, which might have been impossible on anyone else. “You can’t have things for me. What is it? Is it terribly expensive? Or is it some dead thing? I shan’t be pleased with you if it’s the latter.”

“Utter lies, necromancer.” He leaned on the doorframe, feeling positively giddy. “Let me in so I can give it to you. –You will like it, I promise.”

Dorian cocked a brow at him, mustache twitching. “That sounds like something I read in a cheesy book somewhere. Do come in.”

Before this point Trevelyan had never been inside Dorian’s room, so upon passing the threshold he had to take a moment to steady himself. If he didn’t know better, he could swear that he had just stepped through some manner of magic barrier. –Knowing Dorian, perhaps he had.

The room was small. Not as small as Trevelyan’s loft, but smaller than the room Adaar slept in. To his mind, this made it more ideal. More of a den, instead of an open space that was surely impossible to sleep in. There were stacks of books and neatly arranged wine bottles ( _The fourteen he took from the cellar_ , his mind helpfully supplied, _Five of them are empty but probably not from today alone as he was banned weeks back_ ), dark curtains over the windows and something on the bedside stand that filled the place with a pleasant aroma he had never experienced before. There were a number of other odds and ends that he would have loved to pick through, including a skull with strange symbols carved into the bone, but now Dorian was watching him with his glittering, warm gaze, and it was hard to focus on anything else in the room.

“Well?” he said expectantly.

“—Right.” Trevelyan resumed the digging in his pocket, frowning lightly before his fingers caught on chain.

As Dorian’s eyes fell on the amulet, delight that burned in Trevelyan’s core and warmed him to his toes showed itself on his face. He immediately reached for it, setting his bottle aside with a sharp clack, voice full of surprised wonder. “The Pavus birthright!” Then confusion was left in its wake as he glanced up once more. “You…? How did you even…?”

“I overheard you talking with Adaar.” He shrugged, smiling, for once no teeth on display. His insides felt cozy. “Couldn’t help it. His tent was next to mine.”

“But that was…” Dorian frowned in thought, fumbling with the clasp to no avail. “That was _weeks_ ago. Over a month, if memory serves. You remembered all this time?”

Something about that seemed wrong. Why shouldn’t he remember? “I just happened to run into Ponchard in his shop that day we had free in Val Royeaux, that’s all. His name struck a bell, and so I thought—”

“But Ponchard wasn’t in his shop that day. I looked.”

Out came the teeth. Trevelyan felt a slight twitch of irritation that Dorian could be so sharp despite clearly being intoxicated. “Alright, yes, I specifically asked him to meet with me to demand he sell you your birthright back, are you happy?”

Dorian continued to speak with that same flat confusion, his hand idly drawing over the birthright as though it were some talisman from which he could draw power. “But he wouldn’t…How did you get him to agree?”

Trevelyan huffed, feeling an annoying blush begin to creep over his cheeks. “If I thought I was going to have to account for myself I might have just left this in a package at your door.”

“What?” Dorian shook off the look of dumb, dazed wonderment. “No, I just…wasn’t expecting this at all. I was…This is far too much, I could have handled it myself—"

“Consider it a favor,” he pushed gently. “You do me favors all the time. So it’s nothing at all.”

“Alexiel, this is not…this is not some idle gesture. Surely—surely you know what this means to me.”

“I don’t have to know what it _means_.” Trevelyan leaned over and took the clasp of the chain in his hands, helping fasten the amulet around Dorian’s neck when it was clear he had given up on figuring it out himself. It looked good, with the rest of the ensemble—a pale gold that set off the rest of his usual Skyhold leathers. Before he knew it his own smile was softening once more, guard lowering. “…I just have to know it’s important to you.”

“This was my burden to take on.” Dorian’s voice grew quieter, more imploring. “I got myself into it, and I was fully prepared to get myself out. When Adaar found out, I grew concerned that he might—” He seemed to choke, and without warning Trevelyan felt his heart rate spike. “But he didn’t, and the fact that _you_ would—that you—that you were thinking of me...”

That little part of himself that he might call his good sense clamped down on his tongue before he could admit that he was always thinking of Dorian—that a day did not go by that he could _stop_ thinking of Dorian. That thinking of Dorian was all he wanted to be doing, for the rest of his life. “I just…I just wanted to help you.”

Those grey eyes pierced him again, as though trying to pull the truth from his lips. “Why?”

Trevelyan almost said the words. He’d written them out, read them out loud, told them to a mirror, and then burned the note. But when he opened his mouth he couldn’t give them voice. Couldn’t. They frightened him too much. “I…Because I…” All he could hear was his own pulse, all he could see was Dorian’s face, something vulnerable and sweet there that he had never been given permission to look at. “I should…I probably should just—y-you are looking at me very strangely.”

Dorian’s gaze was unflinching, shining in the light. “You would prefer I not look at you?”

He didn’t like the way that sounded. “It—you are making it hard to think.”

“Would it be better if I closed my eyes?”

“I—perhaps it—yes, I think so.”

“I think so too.”

Dorian closed his eyes. Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Trevelyan’s.

Oh.

Oh, this was very nice.

The kiss was soft and unhurried, moving into him slowly but with inexorable pressure as Dorian put a hand in his collar and pulled him closer. He melted under it, sliding a hand down to his waist and feeling arms winding more tightly around him in reply. Being close—that was precisely what he needed more of, yes. His body felt so good, so—so _solid_. He backed Dorian up to the wall, practically pinning him there as though to make sure no one else snuck in and took his prize away. Have some grounding when the kiss deepened and he was tasting all the wine that Dorian had been drinking. Some of the useless buckles were digging into his front, so without breaking contact he clumsily started trying to undo them. There was a cut on Dorian’s lip, and he ran his tongue across it, savoring the texture.

Perhaps he had inadvertently opened up that cut again. Perhaps his teeth were too sharp, and he’d nicked his lip as they adjusted their mouths. But Trevelyan tasted faint blood against his tongue. A surprised sound hummed against him, and then instead of being held closer he was shoved back hard enough to make him stagger.

“—This is a mistake.” The words were rushed and a touch slurred from drink, but when Trevelyan heard them he felt his stomach drop.

“It’s not. It isn’t. It was—it was very good.” For one stumbling, stupid moment the only thing that could run through his mind was _the kissing stopped, why did it stop, make it start up again_. “We should—keep doing it.”

“I am here, with you, alone, and I have been drinking. That is precisely the kind of combination that has gotten me in trouble more than once, yet here I am like a bloody fool.” Dorian’s voice was a shudder, smearing the black around his eyes further with a swipe of his hand. “You should leave.”

He didn’t want to leave. Everything in his being wanted to stay. There had to be some way to keep this from spiraling out of control, keep _himself_ from losing his ability to reason. “No. I’m not—Don’t get upset. Please. It’s just a kiss, Dorian.”

The reply came, swiftly and with accusation, “—But you were certainly pushing for _more_ , weren’t you?”

“I—” He was entirely unprepared for any castigations to include him, and he could only work his jaw dumbly for a moment. More, he did want more, that was true. More time spent with Dorian. More everything, with Dorian. More of those gorgeous eyes, more of that rolling laugh, more walks in dark corners of the world with his light trailing along beside him. “Yes?”

“That’s what you expected when you went out and _did me a favor_ , isn’t it?” Dorian didn’t wait for the fumbling, confused reply that followed. “So was this your plan, hm? Dangle my birthright in front of me and hope I’d be _grateful_ enough to get you off?”

Trevelyan felt a flash of startled anger and blurted out, _“You_ kissed _me._ ”

It was the wrong thing to say. Dorian’s eyes went cold, mouth becoming a thin line. “So I did.” Immediately he started moving to go for the door. “Then I offer you my apologies for the misunderstanding. Good night.”

“Th—wh--this is _your_ room!”

Dorian turned back to him, a smile of pure sarcasm plastered over his face. “Goodness! You’re right about all _sorts_ of things today, aren’t you?” He swiped his fingers across one side of his mustache as he started to leave once more. “I suppose I’ll have to spend the night in someone _else’s_ bed, won’t I?”

“No—wait, Dorian, please—" He closed a hand around Dorian’s wrist and pulled him back, instantly feeling like he was holding a hissing viper as the other man turned and bared his teeth.

“Get. Your hands. Off me.”

“You think he’d _care_?” Trevelyan’s mouth seemed to be moving of its own accord, even as he let go. “He doesn’t look for you. He doesn’t walk with you. You don’t stay in his bed. You don’t drink with him.” Dorian shook his head, angrily reaffixing his belts and smoothing down his mussed hair. “You shouldn’t be with him. He doesn’t love you, Dorian. Not like—” He was leaving. He would leave and that would be that. They would fight together, walk together, live in the same hold, but that would be it and there would be no fixing it. “Not like I love you.”

And, chillingly, Dorian stopped.

He turned, slowly, such venom in his eyes that he was perhaps trying to literally poison Trevelyan right there. In a low voice he said, snarling, “What would _you_ know about love?”

It was as though he’d been punched in the stomach, all the air leaving his lungs.

Dorian continued, advancing on him and forcing Trevelyan to take several steps back. “You, who’s always talking about how much you hate being around people. You, who kill and threaten for fun and look at everyone like they’re preparing to stab you in the back. You, always going on about how heartless you are. Suddenly now you’re in love?”

“Not—” The words would not align themselves into a coherent sentence. “Not _suddenly_ , I—"

“It’s not enough that you come in here and you _besmirch_ my dignity and insult Adaar, the man who was _more than generous_ enough to give you a chance to prove yourself despite you joining us under _false pretenses_ —” The lamps around them flared bright, turning yellower as the heat rose, and the light gave Dorian’s grey eyes an angry shine. “—Now you have the audacity to throw those words in my face, like some cheap line, something to _persuade me with._ ”

“No, I—”

“You think I would ever believe that, coming from—coming from some sadistic, brutal _thug_ who entertains no thoughts in his head save slaughter?”

It was like a punch, another blow making his heart stutter, and more words came up like blood in his teeth. “But I mean it, Dorian.”

That received no reply.

Helpless. That was how it felt. That was how this always felt. “I dream about you. Every night. I grow furious whenever I hear someone speak badly of you, I delight every time I am able to see your face and hear you laugh. If I could come up with the words to express the amazement and wonder that you fill me with, simply by being yourself, I would tell you every day until you believed it. Sometimes I—sometimes I feel there is this-this buzzing inside me, this horrible energy, and I know that it is there because it is gone when I am with you. When we’re together and I don’t have to pretend I’m something else, because you--understand.”

_Please understand._

Trevelyan didn’t know how to look sincere. He didn’t know how to let the depth of his emotion convey the truth of the words. If it was within his power, he would have done so already. All he could do was state facts.

Swallowing, he finished with, “It is not a line. I love you.”

Dorian stared at him, eyes full of wild fire but his expression becoming oddly subdued. They stood there like that, an inch of distance between them, Trevelyan’s insides melting under that gaze, those eyes that trembled as the rest of him remained restrained. Finally, all that Dorian said, tone strangled with emotions he couldn’t identify, was, “More’s the pity for you, I suppose.”

Then he was gone, the door slamming shut so hard that the crack seemed to reverberate off the walls. Papers rustled in his wake, and a crackling energy pulsed through the air, extinguishing the small lamp and plunging the room into darkness.

It was calm outside, without him there.

The tension of the room converged inside Trevelyan’s weary body, arms shaking, forcing his legs to move.

Because Dorian had—

Dorian was—

Dorian—

Oh. He couldn’t breathe.

The door would be impossible. He couldn’t go through that door. He went to the window instead, undid the latch, climbed out into the night air. There was a breeze, and it felt cool against his face, ruffled his hair. In the real world, not his thoughts. The dizzying height only seized him for a moment, and he was scrabbling along the wall with footing that was assured but limbs that were growing weak as his heart raced and his shoulders trembled.

What was happening to him? He hadn’t felt like this since he was as small and crying about his sister.

There was nothing he could kill to soothe himself. Killing wouldn’t soothe him. His breath came out in a gasping bark of a laugh.

Upward he climbed to the battlements, and he still couldn’t breathe. Where could he go next? Nowhere with people. No one who could see him like this, face contorting, breaths coming in shallow and rapid. Unless—perhaps being around other people would distract him. Have a way to gain an outside perspective. He could do that, couldn’t he? Find someone else, find some way to detach himself. There was the tavern, with people who had called him friend. Friends—friends—Well, he’d—he’d just murdered his friends, hadn’t he?

For just a single, stuttering second, he really _couldn’t_ breathe, and that was so frightening he almost fell off the battlements.

He ran for the guard tower wherein he slept. And Dorian—

As his hand rested on a rung of the ladder into his loft he collapsed against it, letting out several dry sobs so intense that they soundlessly wracked his body. He heard it then; clear like a bell, a voice distinct in his mind, uttering a simple phrase that resonated inside him. _You are alone._

After he had climbed to his room, Trevelyan threw the blanket over his head and stayed there. Faces of people he’d killed haunted him until morning.


	8. Chapter 8

As long as he was careful not to think about what had happened the night before, he was perfectly fine.

Peachy, even.

Trevelyan had woken from a hazy and dismal half-sleep to a bird squawking in his face and a piece of parchment in his lap. The only thing on it was a big, red X, and a piece of map. It felt like a warning, an omen of retribution for things that had gone entirely unregretted (unlike the things he’d done lately that he regretted completely), and so soon enough it was in discarded ribbons on his bedding. Perhaps he should have told someone, but apparently Leliana was already spying on him anyway, so he figured it was fine.

Luckily their resident potion-master had been so kind as to brew him something for his drowsiness after late nights, and just a half cup did its usual trick of brightening and quickening his mind. Once he was freshened up a little, he made his way down the ladder.

Cole’s Rivaini talisman had come in, finally. Only for them to discover that it wasn’t working.

Typical.

Adaar evidently wanted to get this matter sorted as soon as possible, and so was preparing to leave again. When Trevelyan got down to the courtyard he saw no accompanying scouts or any of their heavy hitters. Just Solas, Varric, Adaar, and Cole.

Solas gave him his usual distant politeness, which probably should have bothered him but he was beginning to really hate when people’s opinions of him changed suddenly, for good or ill. Adaar was engrossed with getting his mount prepped, as always. And Varric was, as always, annoyingly observant.

“You alright, Smiley? You look like you haven’t gotten any sleep.”

“I don’t sleep,” he sneered. “Also, no. I didn’t.”

Cole was staring at him too, wordless and fists clenched at his side. Trevelyan gave him a warning look. All of the dramatics last night were embarrassing enough without anyone to witness them. He certainly didn’t need a mind-reader giving everyone a recap.

“I’m sure we’re all curious how this little venture is gonna end, but there’s no sense running yourself ragged to do it,” Varric said patiently, adjusting Bianca’s grip. “Although let’s be honest, we could use more people in case whatever’s blocking the amulet is a heaping pile of shit.”

“Happy to serve.” He glanced back in Adaar’s direction, raising his voice. “Is this everyone? Can we leave now?” _And get as far away from Skyhold as possible._

“Almost.” There was nothing packed into Adaar’s tone, nothing that would indicate that today was unlike any other day, that last night had been unlike any other night. “Dorian is coming with us.”

The day was no longer peachy. Or perhaps it was, because Trevelyan actually hated peaches. “Dorian?” He swallowed. “…Did you talk to Dorian last night?”

Adaar had already turned back to his pack. “No, I was discussing some special operations with Leliana when the sun came up this morning so I turned in early. I just happened to catch him on my way back from the war room and he invited himself along. Why? Did he say something to you?”

Trevelyan struggled to come up with something, anything to say. “No, I j—I just thought—Ju—Never mind. I’m tired.”

Adaar smiled. “So I wager.”

“You’re a bloody coward, for making such a safe wager.”

He shook his head, that damnable smile still on his face.

Trevelyan’s hands were clumsy as he sorted through his equipment, checking knives that he knew to be perfectly sharpened and counting arrows that he took stock of three times a day. It was only when the tremble had returned to his shoulders, when it was just on the verge of being visible to everyone else, that he heard a familiar voice bid a curt greeting to the others present.

You wouldn’t be able to tell that the man had been up all night just by looking at him. Perhaps he hadn’t been.

_Dorian._

Something small and deprived inside of him cried out with longing. Trevelyan quelled it and smiled for armor as his insides cooled once more. Too late to change his mind. _Actually I’m staying here_ —that would be too obvious.

Dorian didn’t so much as look in his direction, strolling up to Adaar and announcing his readiness to leave. Cole barely even waited for a confirmation from the others that they were similarly prepped to head out before he began to walk stiffly to Skyhold’s gate. He had no mount. There was no fear of Cole being unable to keep pace with them.

It was impossible to know just how long a journey they were in for. Cole would always say “not far”, but he was talking in emotional terms—now that he had singled out this “disruption” in his being, it was incredibly close to him spiritually. At least, so Trevelyan presumed, because _physically_ speaking they were all dragged on a several-day journey through the Hinterlands.

With very little to engage him physically, he withdrew into thoughts of puzzling out Dorian.

He still followed Adaar. Still lingered in his company longer than the others. Would still receive the odd affectionate gesture, a hand on the small of his back, a leering look in his direction. Was everything to be a secret then? That didn’t sound like him.

Every so often Dorian would glance back, as though to check to see that Trevelyan was watching. And every time their eyes met, Trevelyan felt the knife go in just a little bit deeper. Felt the space inside him that was drowning begin to bubble and roil.

He managed to avoid the both of them for half the trip, focusing his energy on engaging and distracting Cole who was becoming progressively less hinged as they got closer and closer to whatever was interrupting the talisman’s power. It couldn’t last, however. He should have known that.

Dorian tracked him down while he was hunting for dinner one night.

Most of their inner circle had deduced that “I’ll get the meat for stew tonight” meant that Trevelyan wanted some time alone, and were gracious enough to let him have it. So he allowed his mind to sharpen and focus entirely on the August Ram he was stalking over the plain, how to hide himself from its senses and select the appropriate moment to kill it. He was just in the moment that he loved most, that delicious precipice where he had the bow poised and ready to release, where everything else in the world left him entirely except for this one simple goal.

Behind him he heard, clear and abrupt, “We need to talk,” causing the arrow to miss and fly into a nearby tree, startling the August Ram into fleeing.

He swore and turned to glare.

The kind of withering look Dorian could provide without overly taxing his brows put Trevelyan’s to shame, but all the same they continued to trade off. When Dorian spoke it was slow, and deliberate, eyes trailing over to where his prey had run. “I trust you’re not too busy for it, now?”

It was a peculiar position to be in, because just a few days ago Trevelyan’s primary emotions were still centered around grief, humiliation, and desire. Now that there was some time between him and the initial incident, however, their nature had changed slightly.

Now, he wanted to pop Dorian’s head like a grape.

“I’m not busy,” he said slowly, putting his bow away as he turned to face him properly. “I haven’t been ‘busy’. I simply haven’t had anything to say to you. Also, being in your presence makes me want to choke and die, so there is _that_ to consider.”

Dorian rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “So eloquent. --Last I checked, the two of us were both fully grown men. I think we are better than avoiding each other like children.”

“Like children, are we?” Trevelyan spread his arms, gesturing to indicate the world at large, a category Dorian had not belonged to until now. “I think that things have simply returned to their natural status. I have learned my lesson. I am not so foolish as to continue pining over a man who has made it very clear he doesn’t want me, and so I have stopped.”

Dorian’s voice sharpened, folding his arms peevishly. “And that’s it, then? I am only worthwhile of being pursued? Perhaps I was in error, but I thought you considered us friends.”

_How dare he. How dare he, how dare he, how dare he—_

“Friends.” The word sent a noxious taste into his throat, and he smiled wide, brows furrowed. “Are you in the habit of making friends with sadistic, brutal thugs who entertain no thought in their heads save slaughter?”

“ _Vishante kaffas,_ I might have known you’d _memorize it_ ,” Dorian muttered to himself, expression souring. More directly, he said, “--I am from Tevinter. If I didn’t make certain allowances, I wouldn’t have friends at all.”

“Oh.” There was no actual personal insult in that sentence, but he could still feel a knife in his chest at hearing it. His anger punctured, shoulders slumping. “I see.”

Something must have showed on his face, because Dorian paused and said his next words more carefully. “That night…I wasn’t drunk, but I had been drinking nonetheless. And I was not exercising my…best judgement. So I would like to forget what happened. All of it. Despite—whatever I may have said, I do not like being…” He sucked in a breath, gesturing lightly with his fingers as though the exact phrasing was hard for him to come by. “…Being at odds with people whose company I…tolerate.”

“Tolerate.”

“You know what I mean.”

Yes. Trevelyan knew what he meant. “If you wish to forget it, then it is forgotten.” And it continued to sting. “I will never bring it up.”

“Just like that?” He looked unsure. Perhaps Dorian did not believe him. “…Well then, we have no quarrel, I think.” Expression softening just a touch, he gestured at the arrow, still lodged in the tree trunk. Trevelyan moved to tug it free. “Perhaps then you will allow me to assist you with your hunting today.”

For a moment, he wanted to argue. Insist that he was perfectly capable of killing one dumb animal all by himself, that indeed he had been killing _many_ dumb animals before His Magical Perfection came along, and that having any kind of “assistance” was completely unnecessary. That it was his entirely his fault that he was out of sorts to begin with, that there was nothing he could possibly do to make it better.

Then he just felt wounded, and it was harder to hunt when you were wounded.

He was also tired of spending the last few nights thinking about how much Dorian must be disgusted by him.

“Fine. …That would be fine.”

Dorian’s general ensemble made stalking impossible—the plains were far too open and generally bright for their prey to miss the practically glowing mage with the fancy buckles that clinked when he walked. But that didn’t mean there were no strategies that his inclusion opened up. Such as ones that involved little brush fires that drove animals on the field into the waiting arms of their killer (and maybe got a little out of control in the process).

(It wasn’t Dorian’s fault he didn’t excel at ice magic, he was far too passionate for that).

At the end of it all Trevelyan was singed, exhausted, covered in blood, and…oddly cheerful.

“Let it at least be on record I never intended to cause any sort of grudge between us,” Dorian offered as Trevelyan started skinning the ram. “I would have approached you much sooner, but I was contending with my hangover at the time.”

Trevelyan swallowed down a lump in his throat as one might swat a mosquito. “Adan has a catch-all remedy he gives me. You should try it.”

His generous suggestion was returned with a haughty snort. “I have tasted your ‘remedy’ and it is disgusting.”

Trevelyan tilted his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, it’s delicious. You are simply rejecting it out of hand because _I’m_ suggesting it.”

Dorian gave him a tight look. “The concoction is as sour as biting into a raw lemon. No, thank you.”

“Oh.” He brightened up. “But that’s what makes it so delicious. –Very well. Your loss, Dorian.”

After opening his mouth to retort, Dorian’s face twisted and he said instead, “Must you do that here, by the way? Can’t we carry the beast back to camp before you start removing its entrails?”

“Field dressing improves the taste of the meat,” he remarked simply. “I’m wearing gloves.”

“You’re always wearing gloves.”

He gestured with the knife. “And in this way I am always prepared to butcher things.”

“Maker’s breath. The smell alone.” Blood—that sour, metallic scent, so powerful that he could almost taste it. –Well, perhaps Dorian had reason to dislike that particular smell. “I should have just let you resent me this entire trip and be spared this spectacle.”

“The day is still young. Always plenty of time for me to resume resenting you,” he quipped, focusing now on doing the packaging. “Or for me to piss you off. There is always that option.”

“You’d have to try fairly hard, at this point.” Once the raw flesh had been safely protected, only then did Dorian approach, relaxed and seeming pleased with himself, as was his typical look. “You never take yourself seriously, so there’s no reason for me to.”

Ow.

“Touché.” He tossed Dorian the pelt, watching with small satisfaction both at how he initially fumbled with it, and then how neatly he rolled it up and threw it over his shoulder.

As they walked back, Dorian looked as though there was something more he wanted to say.

He didn’t say it.

When they arrived back to the others he went straight for Adaar’s side of the camp, and Trevelyan felt his buoyed heart break all over again.

It was clear that Cole had never wanted to kill out of anger before. His usual snap precision was gone, in its place a paralyzing burst of rage. In the heat of battle the source of this indecision, this man who had murdered the real Cole, wouldn’t have made two steps before he was bleeding out painlessly from his femoral artery. As it was he was quickly out of sight while Varric and Solas quibbled with Adaar over what was the best solution to the problem.

Trevelyan didn’t bother to listen to what they’d thought. He’d heard enough debate the entire way over. He ran after the Templar.

It wasn’t hard. It was clear that the man was unaccustomed to being prey, and left behind all sorts of clues to track him with. Broken twigs, footprints, scurrying animals—it was almost insulting, as though Trevelyan needed to have all these signs thrown his way to know where the whimpering was coming from.

“You thought if you ignored it, the problem would go away,” he said as his quarry came into sight.

“Please.” His voice was so annoying. Suffused with fear, on the verge of tears. The exact sort of thing that made him want to slit someone’s vocal chords. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?” He strode forward, grabbed the man by his shirt front. “Sorry to who? To me? What have you done to me? I don’t even know you.”

It was like Trevelyan was speaking in another language. All he got in reply were babbled excuses and fat tears as the Templar started praying to Andraste for mercy.

How hilarious. “My name’s not Andraste. Maybe you’d have better luck with Adaar—he’s her herald, you know. Are you not even going to fight me?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—"

_Whap!_

“I don’t give a shit. I’m not the one you killed, after all.”

_Slam!_

“I was almost one of you, you know—Hold still.”

_Slap!_

“You little piece of slime. Is this your tooth?”

Varric and Solas spoke of this issue as though it was a divide between human and spirit, and that seemed so very short-sighted of them, in Trevelyan’s mind. Cole was neither of those things. He was a unique being, and it was an injustice to fit him into a mold, to measure him by metrics he did not understand. Trevelyan empathized—it was in this matter alone that he could empathize completely. They were concerned about getting that silly little talisman to work, but he knew. Only the ephemeral could become something contrary to their nature. Only a being that sought to be itself, pure and unattached, could be made into a monster.

Spirit or human. It made no difference.

The Templar was bleeding from his nose and lip, curled in on himself. Trevelyan leaned down to break his fingers individually.

“ _Stop!”_

It came to him as no surprise. There was no panicked fumbling when the beating stopped. He just let go. “Oh?” He turned, and it was Cole that he was snarling at. “So you want this man dead, but you can’t bear to watch him suffer?”

“I want the hurt to go away,” Cole said, hat low over his face so it was hard to read his expression. “Not make more.”

“But that is what you do, when you kill, Cole. _You make more_.”

“No.” Cole took several steps forward, a blank focus in his eyes. “When he’s gone, all the hurt will stop.”

Without thinking, Trevelyan moved to more fully put himself between him and the Templar. “I’m not letting you end this one. He doesn’t get to be nothing.”

“He killed Cole,” the spirit said, shaking. “ _It’s not right._ ”

“You told me very specifically that you did not want to become the kind of monster—the kind of _demon—_ ” It almost stung to see the way Cole flinched at the word, but he couldn’t take it back. “—that killed people without needing to. You asked me for help.”

“I did.” His voice trembled. He was clenching and unclenching his hands.

“Well, here is the lesson, then.” Trevelyan turned around and picked up the Templar by his collar, hoisting him up high enough that the fabric started to dig into his throat a little, but not enough that he could easily get his feet flat on the ground. “For you, watching someone suffer is hard. But killing—oh, killing is very easy, Cole. It’s so ridiculously easy, this man here did it on accident.”

“I’m sorry.” It was pitiful, really. How the tone of his begging changed when there was recognition in his eyes. “I’m so, so sorry. Let me go. I won’t hurt anyone ever again. I won’t—”

Trevelyan slapped him to keep him quiet. “Kill someone and you don’t have to suffer on their behalf. You don’t have to learn to work around them, or manage them. You don’t have to endure their scorn, or indifference. Ask yourself why, Cole. Why you need this man to die.”

“He forgot.” The Templar squirmed under their mutual gaze, sweat on his brow. “He forgot, and it eats him, and the lyrium eats at him too, sinks his mind in blue vapors and when it’s gone he dries to cracking.” The knives were in Cole’s hands before Trevelyan could blink, twirling lightly in his fingers.

“That’s not why you’re doing it.” The air was crackling now. The faint aura of the Fade that always hung around Cole like a cloud had gotten thicker. “Is it a mercy to him? Will it bring the real Cole back to life? Are you protecting someone from further harm at his negligent hands?” And of course, the answer to all of those was no. He released his target, heard the _whump_ as he crumpled back to the ground. “You want to kill because then it will remove him. It will make him nothing to you, and you don’t have to let any of this cling to you. But that’s exactly what it has to do.”

The tone of Cole’s voice took a sudden drop into fearful. “But if I let it stick I’ll _change._ ”

“Cole.” Trevelyan cupped his cheeks in his hands, looking him dead the face. In the periphery of his vision, he could see the Templar starting to crawl away. Without looking back, he kicked him hard. “Letting things stick is how you know when to stop. How you keep your mercy killings from turning you into a serial killer. You’re supposed to change.”

“You changed,” came the soft reply. “And now you hurt.”

He let go. “Yes. Now I hurt.” The edges of his lips curled up again. “Varric thinks being a person is about anger and knock-knock jokes. It’s about pain, Cole. You cannot employ death to flinch from it. You have to face it. You have to let it change you. Otherwise you will be afraid of becoming a monster forever. Blood magic or no blood magic. Do you understand?”

Cole stood there, glowering and trembling for what felt like an entire minute. His eyes almost went entirely white, pale fingers looking nearly translucent as he gripped the handles of his knives. He looked back to Trevelyan, seemed to stare through him.

Then, “I have…to feel,” he said slowly, quietly. As though reciting a sentence on a school board. “Have to let it…stay in me, and not forget.”

Trevelyan let out a breath slowly, not realizing he’d been holding it. His smile returned, broad as ever. “There you go. That’s what makes a person.”

Cole said nothing, but his body became solid again.

“You see, the people who don’t feel—the people who can lose companions without flinching, who can hurt someone they love and think only about themselves, who can _beat a helpless man and get a kick out of it_ —” He slammed his boot into the Templar’s stomach with a savage grin. “Well, those aren’t people at all.”


	9. Chapter 9

They had stopped in Redcliffe on the way back to Skyhold, to restock and rest.

There was a tavern in the corner of town, removed enough from the throng of people that stared at Adaar as though he was some bizarre, fantastical beast that they could relax for a moment. Solas had rented a room to engage in some day dreaming, depriving them of his sour, rebuffed presence. There were outdoor tables and a fenced in garden for days like today when the clouds were not a sheet over the sun but instead something to accentuate the blue of the sky. A waitress with her hair piled high brought them ale and stew, which Varric wolfed down like a champ before regaling onlookers with an abbreviated version of their trip to Emprise du Lion a ways back.

Trevelyan tapped his fingers on the small table where he sat alone, erratic and automatic and body entirely still otherwise. His eyes were fixed across the way, where Dorian and Adaar stood talking. His consciousness felt as though it was curled up inside himself, dimly wet despite the clear weather.

Their expressions were too muted to read from this distance. Adaar’s body language was open and relaxed, one hand resting on the wall of the shop that they stood in front of as he gave Dorian his full attention. Dorian’s was less so, leaning back with his arms and legs both crossed, eyes on the grass.

It was a pity he could perceive so much detail into body language and yet possessed so little understanding of what it signified.

Dorian’s robes gleamed in the sunlight. They were white, as he typically preferred, but they were inlaid with deep gold highlights that gave the entire ensemble a sort of cream tint from a distance. Offset by his dark skin, Trevelyan was always given the impression of someone simply wrapped in luxury, a barrier that protected against all grime and pain. It was a façade, of course. Things got through.

The corners of his mouth tugged down of their own accord.

The wood of the table was scratched with writing. People carving names and hearts into the battered thing. Many a table had Trevelyan picked at with his own knife when he was younger, but never with creative purpose. Always to destroy. How his mother would scream when she saw him idly damaging their fine dining table with Chef’s cutlery, not even realizing he was doing it until she was prying the blade out of his hand and dragging him to his room before he had finished eating.

His reverie was interrupted by the clink of the waitress setting down his mug in front of him. He pulled it to his side without drinking. When he glanced up again, Dorian was watching him.

He grinned and waved, a gesture which was bemusedly returned.

“The amulet doesn’t fit at all, now.”

Cole approached out of the periphery of his vision and sat down at his side, staring straight at him with those lovely corpse eyes. Trevelyan managed to tear his gaze from Dorian and over in his direction, face wiping blank.

“Sorry,” he said mildly.

“It’s fine. I don’t need it anymore.” People that walked by them would glance in his direction, at the funny boy with the large hat. “I am a…different shape now. More me. No bindings will fit, either.”

“Oh?” Some genuine cheer found its way inside him. “I’m glad to hear you got something good out of that, then.”

The boy’s head gave the slightest tilt, both an acknowledgement and a response, perhaps. In the distance, Varric could be heard reaching the crescendo of his story, his warm, scratchy voice going up in excitement.

Into that not-silence Cole said, tentatively, “You…said that pain is what makes someone a person. I think you were wrong.”

Trevelyan interlaced his fingers, relaxing somewhat in his seat. “How so?”

“It’s not the pain. It’s…not for holding. It’s for changing. It’s the changing, that’s what makes a person.”

It sounded like something that should be true, and Trevelyan nodded. Inwardly he could not believe it, but that seemed to be more a matter of emotion than rationale. “And now you’ve changed?”

“He won’t forget. And neither will I. I will…grow. I will learn. And someday it won’t be hurt anymore. But I will still be better.”

Trevelyan hummed. “That’s a very wise way of looking at it. I hope you tell Solas. He’s very concerned that you didn’t do the ‘spirit’ thing and let bygones be bygones with your murderer. I don’t know if you noticed him sulking in your newfound sense of self. Maybe you should go find him now when he’s fresh and buzzed from the Fade.”

Cole persisted, leaning over and continuing in that same, steady voice. “You think it doesn’t stick to you, but it does. The killing won’t make it go away. It just pushes it. It all comes down on you at once.”

“Maybe.” He sighed, looking down at the carving in the table and finally starting to sip from his mug. It was nice and lukewarm. “Being a bastard was the easier life.”

“Easier for you. Not for everyone else.” There was a note of reproach in his tone.

“An irrelevant matter, when others don’t exist in your awareness as such.” Trevelyan’s heart throbbed again. “It was the easier life,” he repeated.

“Lonely.”

“Yes. That too.”

Dorian was speaking with Adaar, still. Companionable, affectionate. Adaar put a hand on his shoulder, saying something with a wry smile on his lips. It was so sweet, to watch them. It hurt so much, but he liked seeing them smile. Like…the pain of a bruise healing. Or perhaps something that dug a little deeper.

“Adaar says I should…ask, sometimes. Before I say what I hear…Can I tell you something?”

Trevelyan paused to finish his drink, setting it neatly off to the side, his eyes never wavering. “No.”

“Even if it helps?”

Dorian gave the man a joking push that would never in a million years have moved him if he wasn’t already playing along. Trevelyan began to tap lightly on the table again.

“Especially if it helps.”

He caught Adaar as they were on their way out of Redcliffe and told him that he was going to head back ahead of the rest of them. This was not so terribly uncommon that it prompted a line of questioning, but it did lead to a raised eyebrow of concern.

Well, eyebrows had no command of him. He got his things around, sharpened his knives, made sure he had a full quiver of arrows, and set off.

Or at least tried to, but a certain voice pulled him back as surely as any leash.

“So eager to return to cold stone and yammering refugees?” Dorian asked, a small half-smile on his face as though trying to turn the question into a joke.

Whatever slash still remained on his heart pulsed terribly. “I think I would just prefer to be alone for a little while, that is all.”

The half-smile was more palpable in its sudden absence. “Well—all the same perhaps someone should accompany you—”

“I think I can handle myself in the _hinterlands_ , Dorian. I am not short on ways of defending myself.” He held tightly to the strap that tied the bow to his back to keep his hands occupied, but then that resulted in his feet fidgeting instead. “Besides which, I am sure that if I truly find myself in danger, Adaar will be able to pop in at the right moment like he always does.”

“Yes, he…is rather good at that.”

Adaar had very good timing. Trevelyan, he was the one with bad timing. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to look brighter. “You know me. I like being on the outskirts.” Gesturing uselessly, he added, “And you’re a very—spotlight person anyway. So…”

Dorian blinked.

Trevelyan made a noise that he hoped sounded apologetic enough, and pulled away. “I will see you back at Skyhold.”

There was a marshy part of the Hinterlands that gave way to rising hills and sweeping trees. It was entrenched by high quarry walls, accessible only through a small cave system that still bore marks from a recent skirmish wherein all Inquisition members stationed there had been killed or driven off.

Trevelyan had recognized the scrap of map on the message he’d been sent before. It had rolled around in his brain as they navigated, a place that had stuck in his memory because it was where he had first seen those curiously common skulls on posts that seemed littered through Fereldan and Orlais. Adaar had never let him look through one. He’d been very disappointed.

The ground itself seemed to cling to his boots as he wandered further inward, pace slowing as the familiar foliage came into view. Calling it a swamp would be too charitable—there wasn’t nearly enough humidity for that. Bog, perhaps was more appropriate. Far less appealing a word, bog.

Caelus’ raven was sitting there on the ocularum.

Trevelyan ambled over to it without breaking his stride. “There you are, devious thing. Long have I desired this opportunity to be rid of you. Indulge my curiosity, however. How did you manage to hold the pen in your beak to draw me that little bit of map?”

There was a man by the tree line further in, watching him with cold eyes. Trevelyan only stopped as he stood in line with the ocularum, resting his hand upon its surface and startling the bird off its perch. The skull thrummed with faint energy, tingling his fingers through his gloves.

He felt the laughter bubble up in his throat as he saw his old mentor, saw his poor state of dress and the way his brown hair fell across his sunken face in limp strands. The Inquisition army was not an easy one to outpace, and it was clear that there had been a great deal of strain in staying just out of reach. “Caelus! Fantastic! Now I can have killed everyone!”

Caelus threw a bomb at him.

Trevelyan just narrowly missed losing a foot, rearing back and kicking the bomb away. It was the kind that exploded on contact, which meant that he got to feel it falling apart at the impact of his boot, barely skirting away from flaring oil that smoked over the mushy grass.

“I knew you couldn’t stay away,” Caelus said raggedly as he advanced in a careful and slow circle. “I knew your curiosity would draw you here. –They’re not so smart, these Inquisition scouts. Too many fingers in too many pies, in too many places. All I had to do was wait for you to arrive.”

The lull between the first attack and the next allowed Trevelyan to get to his feet, gaze sharp as he drew his bow. If he had bombs on him he would be firing as many as it took—so his enemy had only been carrying the one, then.

“You’re the crazy one, you know,” he continued, breaking the stillness of the falling night around them. “Thinking that I wouldn’t try to get back at you for what you’ve done. To me. To us. You’re a snake and you’ve eaten us from the inside.”

Sweet Maker, he had entirely forgotten Caelus’ most favored and annoying trait—his propensity for monologuing.

“Doesn’t your _jaw_ ever get tired, Caelus?” he demanded, firing and just narrowly hitting a tree trunk instead of his target.

The man continued as though Trevelyan hadn’t almost hit him then. “I should have killed you the moment that I knew how worthless you were. Nessara begged me to let her, do you know that? She just loved _playing_ with you.”

He notched back an arrow, aiming right for Caelus’ bobbing throat. “Ness is dead now, so it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

_Clever eyes on him as he trained._

_Warm fingers brushing the nape of his neck when exhaustion forced him to sit._

_Artery, open._

His next shot missed. He grit his teeth and ducked back into the tree line again.

Again came the monologue, full of its venom and spite. “I sent that message, all filled with promise of sending in one of your pinkies if he didn’t play nice. What was it that your father sent back in reply? Oh yes. ‘ _Perhaps you’ll find some use for him, for I have none’_.”

It was impossible to resist the urge to stop and roll his eyes. He’d always found it tiring how Caelus had thought himself so much more persuasive than he actually was. “I am positively wounded to hear that. Just bleeding. My poor heart.”

Caelus must have thought he was revealing himself unintentionally, because he set himself up for an easy counter by stabbing in Trevelyan’s direction. He neatly sidestepped the blow and brought his knife down on Caelus’ overextended arm, kicking him back with a flat boot to the chest that knocked the wind clear from his lungs.

“My father knew what a vicious son of a bitch I am,” he said, teeth sparkling in the soft green light given off by the ocularum’s highlights as the sun started to set. “Perhaps he simply expected me to crack you open and feast on your entrails myself. Perhaps he died of shock when instead of ripping your silver tongue out of your mouth and strangling you with it, I joined up with you.”

Caelus scrambled backwards along the ground as Trevelyan advanced upon him, and the sight began to fill him with a familiar, predatory glee.

Adaar liked to improve on his people personally, and sparring with a man that had such a ridiculous height and weight advantage made child’s play out of upstart bandits with grandiose ideas. Perhaps this thought had finally occurred to Caelus’ feeble mind, for as he struggled to his feet he barked out, “Guess he’s got you trained pretty good, your ox-man.”

“Pretty _well_ , you simpleton.” Trevelyan fired an arrow as Caelus was struggling to put distance between them, just barely missing. “He is good at the training, yes.”

“And what are you going to do from now on, huh? Backstab everyone you come across?” His voice had reached a sort of desperate pitch as he spoke, floundering back further. “What would your _Inquisitor_ say if he knew that you only joined the Inquisition to spy on them?”

“Well, he apparently knew the entire time, so that’s not as clever as you seem to think it is.”

Damn. That was his last arrow. It never took this many to kill one person. How had he never realized what a slippery bastard he was working for?

“You call me a backstabber, but I don’t think what I’ve done counts. I like them, you see. Adaar doesn’t pretend. He doesn’t lie about what we’re doing. It’s wonderful, really. I get to do the same amount of killing without being looked at like I’m a monster.” Caelus had managed to slip into the foliage. Trevelyan sucked on his teeth. “I’m _valued._ What did you expect was going to happen? That I would have some fanatic loyalty to you that would endure past their friendship?”

“Friendship?” The voice seemed to echo through the foliage, the acoustics of the bog making it hard to pinpoint. Trevelyan felt a spike of irritation wedge into his high spirits. “Oh yes. They engendered enough of your affection to use the knowledge that you bear to destroy the people who once called you friend. Once I’m gone and you have nothing more to offer them, how kind do you think they’ll be to their attack dog?”

His lip twisted, something ugly crawling in his throat again. “The fact that you think I’m their attack dog shows how little you know about both me and them. I’m more like them than that.”

“ _Are_ you?” There was something in that voice he’d always hated, that knowing tone that was worming its way through his detachment, the icy lake he took refuge in. “Is that why you’re here alone?”

Trevelyan’s feet stilled and his mind went blank. He stared at Caelus as he appeared in the dark, expression flat.

Caelus licked at the blood on his lip, sucking in breath as he circled. “You see? You’re not so dull-witted, are you? You know what I mean. Acting like friends but keeping you at arm’s length.”

“You don’t know them. You’re guessing.” His own voice, when it came out, appeared oddly flat and dull.

“If that oxman bastard knew the entire time that you were one of ours, what makes you think _anything_ he’s done hasn’t been a façade? He knows he’s got a mad dog in his pack. He certainly doesn’t want it getting _hostile_ , does he? So he plays nice. Even when you froth at the mouth over spilling blood. He plays nice and so does everyone else, because you’re useful and dangerous.” He laughed, an ugly and grating sound. “How did they manage it, I wonder? Maker, I know how tiresome you are.”

“You’re being very obvious,” Trevelyan said, his cadence wrong, his words stilted. It was getting harder and harder to stay outside, to be in his body instead of his head, and despite knowing these things he was still being sucked in.

Caelus went for his throat. He had drawn his blade, a sturdy and curved thing that he liked to use to chop off people’s heads while they knelt at his feet. Trevelyan was not kneeling at his feet and so he managed to divert the blow with his knives. Then again, and again, blocking and dodging because anything less monotonous was suddenly beyond his reach.

It was ridiculous because the reason he was out here by himself was because he didn’t tell anyone where he was going.

_You’re alone._

There was no guarantee that they wouldn’t have wanted to fight by his side. Adaar had helped before. Even if it was just a matter of pure pragmatism, he would have stood behind him. And the others were good people. All of the jaunts for everyone else—there would be room for him too, surely.

_You’re alone._

But Trevelyan had wanted to be by himself because everything still stung, because—

_You’re alone._

\--Because they would make things too quick, or they would try to _help_ him rather than aid him and he didn’t want that, because there would just be sympathy and the sympathy—

_You’re alone._

\--The sympathy wouldn’t be **_real_** , and it wouldn’t **_matter_** , just like nothing else mattered because **_the things he loved couldn’t love him back--_**

Caelus was still talking, the words foggy now, sliding right over his ears as he tried to retain his focus and keep his head from being cut off. “They made you think you were accepted, wanted. Made you think they understood. And you fell for it. But at the end of the day, not a single one of them is out here with you. You’re just a means to an end. They’re using you.”

The next block sent the sword flying from Caelus’ hand.

“Like you did,” Trevelyan said quietly.

_I’m alone._

And then all he could feel was blinding rage, inarticulate and devoid of strategy. Caelus easily dodged his next slash, swinging around to sweep his foot out from under him and send him sprawling.

Stupid. Just stupid.

In the time it took for him to wrench his mind back from its irrational, panicked whirring, Caelus had maneuvered him into a chokehold.

“I guess it’s on me to put this dog down,” he hissed, fury finally leaking through his voice.

It was not an impressive chokehold by any stretch, as Trevelyan was still able to get at least a little bit of air into his lungs. But it hurt, and it was slowly starting to cut off the flow of blood to his head. His vision dimmed as he brought his hands up, trying to wrench the arm off of his throat but failing miserably. As soon as he fell unconscious, he’d have his insides cut out.

The ocularum came back into view, and he started to make a noise that was a cross between a gasping wheeze and laughter.

A cream-colored blur slammed a staff at actual lightning speeds into Caelus’ head with a spatter of blood. His arm fell away from Trevelyan’s throat, and he hacked and coughed air back into his lungs. The blur moved to hold his face, and suddenly it was no longer a blur but Dorian, brow furrowed hard as he looked him over.

“You’re not dead? He hasn’t killed you? Excellent. Can you stand?”

The world around them was stupendously slow, but there still wasn’t enough time for Trevelyan to cough out more than a single word before Caelus barreled into Dorian with the full weight of his body. Magic crackled in the air around them as the Haste spell snapped, leaving a tingling along Trevelyan’s teeth as he fell once more. He managed to brace himself on his forearms so that he didn’t fall completely into the dirt, trying to push himself up to see the scuffle but struggling with the mushy ground.

Caelus had blood all over his forehead, but it seemed that his skull had remained largely intact. Pity. Dorian was an excellent mage but only a passable short-range fighter, having to expend so much energy and focus blocking sword strikes with his staff that he couldn’t get a proper spell going.

“If you could _get this lunatic off me I’d appreciate it!”_ Dorian called out to him, just barely managing to duck getting his pretty head chopped off and losing a few hairs in the process.

Trevelyan let out an inarticulate roar and leaped onto Caelus’ person. This time the lunge was more successful, and the two of them toppled down, nearly rolling into the thick bog with the momentum of his body. For a moment there was nothing but clawing and elbows and rancid breath as he struggled to get to his feet, to once more have the high ground. He managed to pull away long enough to be up on his haunches.

A stabbing pain arced through his calf, and he fell into a heap. Again.

Things were a little fuzzy after that. His leg hurt too much to stand up again, so he had to roll over to see Caelus staggering to his feet, eyes red and yellowed teeth bared in fury.

Dorian and the ground around him in a circle about eight feet in diameter was glowing purple. Said ground appeared to have runes inscribed into the grass by pure light, whispers of magic fluttering off them like haunting tendrils.

A bony hand shot out of the muck and grabbed Caelus by the leg.

As he tried to wrench it free, another seized his arm.

Then another.

And another.

Rotting fingers wrapped around his limbs and stomach like spindly vines, two to replace everyone one that he was able to buck off or tear loose. Too many. All of them tugging inexorably downward, the glow of spirit eyelights popping up occasionally from the murk. Caelus screamed, high and terrified, as he was pulled under.

Then there was silence, broken only by Dorian’s huffing breath, trembling from mana exhaustion.

He chugged down a vial of blue liquid and then tossed it to the ground as he rushed over to where Trevelyan lay. “Show me your leg.” Voice tight and cold.

Trevelyan fumbled, still untangling himself. He would speak, but he lips felt a little rubbery, as did the rest of him, really. He could hear angry swearing above him, felt warm hands pulling up his leg and tearing at his boot to see where the knife had punctured his skin.

Maybe it should have hurt when Dorian started poking around down there, but the entire area had already gone numb.

“Poison…? _Vishante kaffas,_ open your _bloody mouth.”_ Fingers prying his lips open, much less gentle than Dorian’s tongue had been once. Cool, tangy liquid trickled down his throat, and he spluttered involuntarily as some of it went into his lungs.

Elfroot. Dorian never did trust his abilities as a healer. Far easier to just reanimate a corpse than to patch up a living person. If he died, could he do the same with him? Frankly, that might be worth this whole thing.

Trevelyan could hear him talking, but the words felt detached. Distant. “What were you thinking coming down here _alone_ , you stupid bastard? _Festis bei umo canavarum._ ”

Dorian was so sweet. He tried to reach up to cup his cheek, but his arm was fairly useless and merely flopped a little. It was just as well—the mage had pulled back to rifle through his pack again, muttering to himself.

“If you die from this ridiculous _nobody_ I swear I will resurrect you and _kill you a second time--_ ”

The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness completely was Dorian gathering him up in his arms.


	10. Chapter 10

He would have liked to say that the last and first thing he saw was Dorian Pavus, but in actuality the first thing he saw upon waking was burlap tent.

But the very next sight after that was Dorian, at least. Tired, brows creased, the kind of immaculate that only came about as a result of deliberate attempts to not appear disheveled. He sat close by, a book on his lap that he had likely been reading until a few seconds ago when Trevelyan had started to stir.

The sight of him was actively painful, but in a different way from the rest of him.

“How are you feeling?” was the first thing that came out of Dorian’s mouth.

Tricky thing to answer. His brain wasn’t entirely running yet. “Physically?”

“I suppose so.”

“You _suppose_?”

He threw up his hands in a gesture of annoyance, and it was so adorable that it soothed some of the ache immediately. “Answer the bloody question.”

Trevelyan frowned, taking stock of himself.

His throat was raw and bruised, both inside and out it felt like. Even talking scraped a bit, though thankfully not enough to mute him. The part of his calf where Caelus had stuck his poison was fine unless he moved it, but the pain was manageable even so. His head ached, but in a dull way, like how he typically felt after sitting through the full length of one of his aunt’s Antivan operas.

He noticed with some slight discomfort that they had taken off his gloves. Granted, he noticed this because Dorian was holding one of his hands and idly brushing his fingers over his knuckles, heedless of their scarring. The small affection was pleasant, and he dared not wrench his hands back to cover them. Not yet, anyway.

After some consideration, he sat up.

It did not feel like he was dying, to do so.

“My leg hurts,” he reported. “But the poison appears to have done no lasting harm.”

Upon hearing that, Dorian released a breath as though he’d been holding it for hours. “Good. …Good, I am…glad.” He wiped a hand over his face. It looked as though he hadn’t gotten a moment’s rest since the fight. What time was it outside the tent? Bright enough that the light shone through the fabric, though not enough for it to have been noon. “For a moment there, I thought…Well, never mind that.”

“If I’d died you could have just as easily resurrected me as one of your zombies,” he quipped immediately.

Dorian scowled.

The words seemed to hang there as though stuck on some oppressive, thick wall between the two of them. Trevelyan cleared his throat, unfamiliar with how to breach this particular silence. “Thank you for saving me.”

It seemed to do something, anyway. The knot in Dorian’s brow relaxed, and he said, almost self-consciously, “Well. It was the healers who did most of the saving. I more…kept you stable until then.”

“You did kill Caelus.” A bit of a smile crossed Trevelyan’s face at the memory. “It was very entertaining.”

“Ah. Yes, there was that.”

And then, again, there was that weight that lingered on after they had finished speaking. It was as though the composition of the air had changed while he was unconscious. Perhaps it was something Dorian had done, some afterimage of the magic he had wrought, or the energy release of a glyph. He seemed equally trapped by it, however.

“I’ve ended things with Adaar,” he said suddenly, hands pulling back.

Trevelyan blinked at him in surprise and said nothing.

After a moment Dorian continued, “Not just now. I mean that I broke off with him while we were in Redcliffe.” He paused. For once, the elegance of his words seemed to have deserted him. “I apologize if the rumor mill failed to inform you, but we rather decided it was no one else’s business this time.”

It occurred to Trevelyan that Adaar must have been taking it exceptionally well, to not have given any sign for him to pick up on. “Oh. I’m sad to hear that.”

“No you bloody well are not.”

“You’re right.” Trevelyan glanced at his fingers. His knuckles were so mottled, he didn’t know how Dorian could stand to have touched them. “I don’t know why I said that.”

Outside he could hear people talking. Requisition scouts trying to gather someone’s attention, a handful of soldiers discussing their latest scrape. Adaar’s baritone, giving orders and making inquiries, as befit him. The sounds converged on his ears, nettling the inside of his brain and drowning out the world in their indistinct buzz.

All at once his focus snapped back to Dorian. “Why did you? Break up with Adaar, I mean.”

Dorian’s mouth opened before his voice was ready. His eyes were a cool grey. Trevelyan wasn’t sure he’d ever seen them that particular color. The lighting usually tinted them. “I realized that I wanted it to be something it wasn’t, and told him so. Terribly sad. Mortification was had by all.”

“I see.”

He continued, “I simply thought it—prudent to let you know. So that you could—know.”

Trevelyan rested a cheek on his palm, lifting a brow. Exhaustion and injury still clung to him in small doses—he wasn’t feeling particularly like reading between the lines. “I do like having information. Though I would appreciate some credit—as soon as I wasn’t being surprise-murdered, I would probably have figured it out on my own.”

“Right. …Yes, of course.”

“—I am sorry, by the way.”

“Hm?” Did he express sympathy so little, that the statement would cause such bewilderment? “What for?”

“That it wasn’t what you wanted. …You and Adaar.”

“Oh.” Dorian stared at him for a moment, before his voice softened so much that it was almost inaudible. “…That’s alright.”

The silence was beginning to drive him quite actually insane. This time he could only bear it for a few seconds.

“…Before I fell unconscious you sounded very angry at me.” He laughed. Nervous. It was terrible—the way Dorian could just look at him and suddenly have words spilling out of his mouth without thought or control. “If being around me still bothers you, you don’t have to do it. I’m sorry if I made you feel obligated by giving you your amulet back. No obligation was intended. It was just supposed to be a—a friendly gesture.”

“Obligation?”

“That’s why you were there, wasn’t it? And why you’re here now. You feel—obligated?”

Dorian looked rather like he’d been slapped.

“…Am I incorrect?” When that did nothing to change the disconcerting expression on Dorian’s face he added, “—I know I said all those—all those things and I kissed you but you don’t have to—I will get over it, someday, eventually. So don’t feel like you have to…” The words died in his throat, and he gestured helplessly. “…Why are you staring at me like that?”

Rather than reply, Dorian abruptly stood and began to pace in tight circles in the confines of the tent.

“I have wanted…to do this the way I am normally accustomed, but my actions have…led to a misunderstanding between us that I can’t—easily rectify.” He took a breath, not even looking over at Trevelyan now. “You see I often have to maneuver in a way that minimizes risk to myself, but there are so many complications now that I can’t do that. Good sense would dictate that I not proceed at all, but watching what happened to you--”

“Dorian I hope you know that I am very bad at inferring when I have just woken up.”

He sighed, stopping in his tracks and putting a hand to his forehead. Then he replied, voice brighter, “Very well. I will be clearer. I think it is…the only thing I can do, at this point.” He strode back over. “When you said what you did…I did not react in a favorable manner.”

Blood was red. Water was wet. Trevelyan nodded.

“If you were to say it again,” Dorian continued, his light tone coming to strain and betraying its artificiality. “I may respond more agreeably.”

Trevelyan’s entire world froze.

“Please understand.” And it sounded like genuine pleading, a tone that was entirely unfamiliar and alien in Dorian’s voice. “This is something in which I have no practice. I was not—expecting it in the least, and for it to come about when it did at the—the worst possible time—” He huffed. “You must know the position you have _put me in_ , how I—I couldn’t respond _honestly_ because to do so would open me to—I simply couldn’t.

“But now I have done something even worse, which is to let you think you are not worth anything to me, instead of—instead of being someone that I—” And there he simply gave up, tone breaking into frustrated anger. “ _Fasta vass,_ surely you must have had some inkling, I cannot have been _that_ subtle. Surely you must know that I would not kiss a man like that simply because I thought I owed him.”

Everything that Trevelyan had thought was so no longer held true. “Say it—” he swallowed, barely daring to breathe. “Say it like you are speaking to the densest man in the world. Because you are.”

Dorian cupped his face in his hands, looking into his eyes searchingly. His fingers were warm, and his breath smelled of mint. “I didn’t mean what I said that night. Any of it. I don’t think that of you. And then I had no idea how to take it back without—without admitting that I--” With a short tremor, his voice broke.

Trevelyan stared.

Then he grinned, slow and wide and sharp, and Dorian released him as though in fear of being bitten.

“So, he feels it too but he can’t say it,” he purred.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Dorian said, alarmed. He actually took a single step backward—Andraste help him, Trevelyan felt the desire to chase spring up inside him. “I take it back. I despise you. You physically repulse me.”

He stood, wincing slightly as his weight got on his bad leg. “You’re _adorable_.” The oppressive wall lifted, and in its absence came bubbling light once more. “I’d like to detach my jaw and swallow you whole like a snake.”

Dorian pulled a face. “There’s a lovely image.”

“To think, all this time I have been making the erroneous assumption that you’ve been saying what you mean.” He took his hands, bringing one to his mouth. “Tell me to leave and I will, Dorian.”

And in response, Dorian started to splutter, face reddening. “You’re being awfully cheeky for someone who’s only just woken up from a near-death experience.”

"You’re being very transparent.” Trevelyan almost felt high, allowing Dorian his hands back. “Now. I think there are three little words that you owe me.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Dorian sat back on his heels and looked up to the top of the tent as though imploring it for guidance. “Very well.” And then, with the utmost gravity, he said, “I love you.”

Trevelyan’s vision started to blur. “What?”

“Maker, now you’re crying. I’m making such a terrible mess of this.”

He slapped a hand over his face, pulling back and trying very hard to hide the way his expression was contorting. “—You were supposed to apologize.” Maker, his voice was strangled. “ _’I am sorry’_. That’s what I meant, that you—you never said— _Fuck—_ ” Now the tears were flowing freely, and he pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes as hard as he could to stop them. “Y-you love me?”

Not since childhood had he ever been so embarrassed, so it was perhaps fortunate that Dorian chose that moment to send him into the clouds by kissing him for the second time.

“I love you,” Trevelyan said, wetness on his cheeks. “Please be mine.”

Dorian kissed him until the ache went away.

Then he said yes.

* * *

Adaar found Trevelyan at his usual spot in the basement library, perusing books with what looked to be a rapidly decayed attention span, flipping through one and moving to another every two minutes or so. That was typically how he was. That, or climbing on the ramparts. Sometimes he was harder to find than Cole, but lately he seemed to have settled down.

Trevelyan glanced up as he approached, brows angular and crooked grin spreading, but that was also his customary greeting. He stood, arms folding. “Something you need?”

“I’d like to talk about a private matter,” Adaar started, suddenly feeling at odds with himself over how to broach the topic. This kind of thing had never been a problem in the Valo-Kas. Or most of his time as Inquisitor, really, if he were looking at things in the long-term. Maybe it wasn’t even really a problem now, except he knew better than to ignore it with everything that had just happened on the way to Redcliffe, and everything that had happened on the way _back_ from Redcliffe, and then of course there was Redcliffe…

Plus, he would have to be blind and stupid to miss how Dorian and Trevelyan had been so close the past week that those not in the know might have assumed their shoulders were conjoined.

He was met with a flat glance around them, at the dusty shelves that still had not been touched in years, despite a regular occupant. “Well…Now is a good time for that, I would think. Seeing as we are in private.”

“Right.” A steady breath. Then, “So. You and Dorian.”

His reaction was immediate, a brilliantly wide smile with genuine delight in his eyes. “Me and Dorian.”

“You sound very pleased.”

“I am.” Trevelyan gave him a look from the top of his eyes, smile dimming into something more of a sneer. “I was waiting on you to let him go for an awfully long time.”

So this wasn’t some rebound relationship, then. “What, you’ve been pining for him all this time?”

The look on Trevelyan’s face was so patently childish it was hard not to laugh. “Well don’t say it like that. That makes me sound pathetic.”

“I mean you could have said something.”

He snorted. “Oh sure. ‘Dorian, I know you’re having amazing sex with one of the most powerful men in Thedas who is built like a god with brains to match, but you should come run with me instead. I’ll regale you with tales of my exploits murdering people who probably didn’t deserve it and drool over your necromancy’. That would have gone over very well.”

Adaar put a hand over his mouth to hide the smile. “He did ultimately pick you, though, yes?”

He received a conciliatory grumble in reply. It almost seemed like that was the end of it, but then he folded his arms and said, in a measured tone, “He told me that you’re the one who ended your ‘relationship’. Why?”

Adaar grimaced. “He informed me that he liked the sex but the fact that it was only that ‘assailed him with extreme self-loathing and misery’. Technically speaking, I _am_ the one who broke it off, but there wasn’t really anything else I could do after a pronouncement like that.”

Trevelyan laughed, suddenly grinning again. “He is very dramatic.”

“Yes he is. Apparently being Tevinter means you don’t _tell_ people when you’re—” His words cut off into a exasperated grunt. “Humans. Anyway. Water under the bridge. So the saying goes.”

“So the saying goes.” Trevelyan agreed, starting to adjust the fit of his gloves. “Well. It better be. I think if you seduced him back to your side again I might turn rabid and wind up being bad for all of you after all.”

Adaar had no thoughts of seducing anyone again, for a long, long time. But he didn’t say that. “Is it…going to be awkward traveling with you two, now?”

That seemed to give him some pause, and Trevelyan considered him, briefly. “Only if you and Dorian make it awkward.”

“I’ve been your romantic obstacle all this time and you’re over it just like that?”

He shrugged. “I like you. I like Dorian. What I did not like was the two of you together. But, now it is no longer so. Thus, I like you both again.”

“That’s a very simple way of looking at it.” Not out of character for him, though. It was the kind of straightforwardness that Adaar would have liked to have on a more regular basis. “I guess we’ll see how he feels about it. You know him. His pride will probably dictate we not speak to each other for a while. Which does mean I get spared him talking my ear off about ‘snapping the Fade’ or doing that annoying thing where he—”

“Watch it.”

He coughed into his fist. “You know…you two. Together as a couple. …I can see it.”

Trevelyan grinned, splitting and wide with his teeth on display. “I find it horribly offensive that a Qunari whose name means ‘weapon’ is such a soft touch off the field. It’s very inappropriate.”

Adaar chuckled. “Well, consider yourself lucky not to be on my bladed side, yes?” Then he cleared his throat. “Very lucky, I think. –I believe Dorian’s looking for you out in the courtyard, by the way. Probably shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

Trevelyan had started sprinting up the stairs before Adaar had even finished talking.

He smiled, shook his head, and sat down to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if this ending isn’t as polished as maybe it should be. Fool that I am I have already been seized up with another burst of inspiration for a longer fic, and so I have been mostly working on that for the past week and a half. I’m very excited to write it so apologies if it seems to have poached my motivation.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed this one though! This was a brand of angst I was very eager to write about. I actually really like how Trevelyan is set up as a companion, and I’ve been wanting to have at little something on my Adaar for a while, so this was a lot of fun.


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